LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  oiEeo 


<^ 


r 


P  O  E  M  S 


AND 


PROSE     WRITINGS. 


BV 


RICHARD    HENRY     DANA. 


IN     TWO     VOLUMES, 
VOLUME  I. 


N  E  \V      ^   (  »  K  K  : 
)i  A  K  i;  li     A  .\  I)    S  (■  U  I  U  \  K  H 


M  ii<  II'  r 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

Richard    Henry    Dana, 

in  the  Clerlv's  OfSce  of  the  District  Court  of  tlie  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED    BY    METCALF    AND   COMPANY, 

PRINTED    BT    EDWARD    O.    JENKINS, 
114  NASSAU   STREET,   NEW  TORS!. 


PREFACE 


The  first  of  these  volumes  includes  all  that  was  in  the  for- 
mer edition  of  Poems  and  Prose  Writings,  with  the  addition  to 
the  Poems  of  a  few  short  pieces.  That  edition  contained  all 
that  was  in  the  small  volume  of  Poems  published  in  1827.  For 
particulars  respecting  this  last-mentioned  volume,  the  reader  is 
referred  to  its  Preface,  here  republished. 

To  the  prose  of  this  first  volume  I  have  restored  its  old  title, 
The  Idle  Man.  Of  the  work  under  that  title,  published  in  New 
York  in  1821-22,  The  Writer  of  the  Idle  Man  to  his  Old 
Friends  will  tell  my  readers  as  much  as  they  will  care  to  know. 

The  Contents  to  the  second  volume  show  when  and  in  what 
works  the  Essays  first  appeared.  Of  the  remaining  ai-ticles, 
this  information  is  given  at  the  beginning  of  each. 

I  have  republished  most  of  my  Reviews,  mainly  because 
I  thought  there  was  a  probability  that,  if  I  did  not,  some  one 
would  when  I  was  gone.  In  anticipating  this,  and  revising  these 
articles  for  the  press,  I  believe  I  have  done  no  more  than  my 
duty  to  myself  In  the  revision  I  have  made  slight  changes,  but 
have  not  felt  at  liberty  to  do  any  thing  that  would  affect  the 
gonnrai  character  of  the  Reviews :  had  I  so  felt,  I  might,  per- 
haps, have  freed  them  from  many  faults.  The  only  changes 
which,  it  sf.'cms  to  me,  arc  of  importance  cnougii  lo  hu  partic- 


iv  PREFACE. 

ularly  mentioned,  — and  these  take  the  character  of  extension, 
or  growth,  rather  than  of  superaddition,—  are  those  in  the  re- 
view of  Hazlitt,  which  are  spoken  of  at  the  head  of  that  article. 

And  this  reminds  me,  that  what  is  there  said  respecting 
Hazlitt's  productions  and  Uterary  rank  after  that  review  was 
written,  is  equally  applicable  to  Mr.  Irving  and  the  review  of 
The  Sketch  Book.  For  although  Mr.  Irving  was  better  known 
when  the  review  of  him  appeared,  and  more  highly  estimated 
both  at  home  and  abroad  than  was  Mr.  Hazlitt  in  our  country 
when  the  article  on  his  Lectures  was  published,  Mr.  Irving  has 
also  gone  on  rising  in  reputation,  and  giving  proofs  of  the  variety, 
strength,  and  beauty  of  his  mind.  Besides  this,  he  has  revised 
his  works,  bringing  to  the  revision  the  helps  of  long-matured 
thought  and  taste.  The  review  of  The  Sketch  Book,  therefore, 
is  preserved  more  for  the  sake  of  conformity  with  my  general 
purpose,  and  for  the  historical  interest  it  may  possess,  than  for 
any  applicability  to  the  works  of  Mr.  Irving  at  this  time. 

In  the  Reviews  much  is  said  upon  the  state  of  American 
literature,  and  the  notions  then  more  or  less  prevalent  about 
literature  and  literary  men,  which  must  have  a  strange  aspect 
to  those  who  have  grown  up  since  they  were  written.  Yet  it 
is  as  true  as  things  of  so  general  a  character  usually  can  be. 
With  this  in  mind,  they  should  be  read  as  a  part  of  our  liter- 
ary history.  If  looked  at  in  this  light,  I  may  be  allowed  to  say, 
they  will  be  deserving  of  some  attention,  and  in  it  will  probably 
be  found  to  lie  their  chief  interest  to  people  of  this  day.  For 
in  the  changes  which  the  literary  world  has  undergone  within 
the  last  thirty  years,  much  that  was  once  held  to  be  presumptu- 
ous novelty  (though  in  fact  only  restoration)  must  now  be  looked 
upon  as  little  better  than  commonplace. 

Boston,  November  1,  1849. 


CON  T  E  N  T  S 


TO 


VOLUME     FIRST 


POEMS. 

PAGE 

PREFACE    TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION    OF    THE    POEMS           .             .             .  ix 

PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND    EDITION    OF    THE    POEMS               .             .  XU 

THE    BUCCANEER         .........  3 

THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME           .......  35 

FACTITIOUS    LIFE                     ........  59 

THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL        .......  85 

THE    HUSBAND    AND    WIFe's    GRAVE     ......  97 

THE    DYING    RAVEN          ........  101 

FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE          .......  106 

THE    PLEASURE-BOAT      .             .             .             .             .             .             .             .  Ill 

THE    EARLY    SPRING    BROOK  .  .  .  .  .  .  .114 

"THE    CHANTING    CHERUBS  "             ......  119 

THE    M0.S3    SUPPLICATETH    FOR    THE    POET               ....  121 

A    CLUMP    OF    DAISIES    ........  125 

CHANTREY's    WASHINGTON            .......  127 

THK    LITTLE    nEACH-UHll)         ....                          .             .  129 

-REENOUIjH's    STATUE    OF    MEPORA  131 

VOL.  I.  a* 


VI  CONTENTS. 

TO    A    GAKDEN-KLOWER    SENT    ME    BY   A   LADY               .            .             .  133 

I    SAW    HER    ONCE                  ........  134 

ON    RECEIVING    FLOWERS,    DURING    ILLNESS,    FROM    A    LADY          .  135 

THE    DEATH    OF    WASHINGTON    ALLSTON 137 

DAYBREAK 139 

NOTES 143 

THE    IDLE    MAN. 

THE   WRITER   OF   THE   IDLE   MAN  TO  HIS  OLD  FRIENDS                .             .  147 

TOM    THORNTON .  153 

EDWARD    AND    MARY 222 

PAUL   FELTON 270 

THE    SON 375 

KEAN's  ACTING 387 

A   LETTER    FROM    TOWN 405 

A   SECOND   LETTER   FROM    TOWN      ......  417 

DOMESTIC    LIFE 425 

MUSINGS 435 


POEMS. 


PREFACE 

TO    TTTF,   FIRST   EDITION   OF   THE   POEMS 


It  is  not  without  hesitation  that!  give  this  small  volume  to  the 
public ;  for  no  one  can  be  more  sensible  than  I  am  how  much 
is  necessary  to  the  production  of  what  may  be  rightly  callerl 
poetry.  It  is  true  that  something  resembling  it  is  oftentimes 
borne  into  instant  and  turbulent  popularity,  while  a  work  of 
genuine  character  may  be  lying  neglected  by  all  except  the 
poets.  But  the  tide  of  time  flows  on,  and  the  former  begins  to 
settle  to  the  bottom,  while  the  hitter  rises  slowly  and  steadily  to 
the  surface,  and  moves  forward,  for  a  spirit  is  in  it. 

h  is  a  poor  ambition  to  be  anxious  after  the  distinction  of  a 
day  in  that  which,  if  it  be  fit  to  live  at  all,  is  to  live  for  ages. 
It  is  wiser  than  all,  so  to  love  one's  art  that  its  distinctions  shall 
be  but  secondary  :  and,  indeed,  he  who  is  not  so  absorbed  m  it 
as  to  think  of  his  fame  only  as  one  of  its  accidents  had  better 
save  himself  his  toil  ;  for  the  true  power  is  not  in  him.  Yet 
the  most  self-dependent  are  stirred  lo  livelier  action  by  the 
hope  of  fame-,  and  there  are  none  who  can  go  on  with  vigour, 
without  the  sympathy  of  some  few  minds  which  they  respect. 

I  will  not  say  of  my  first  talc,  as  Miss  Edgeworth  sometimes 
does  of  her  iin[)robabilities,  "  This  is  a  fact"  ;  but  thus  nuich 
I  may  say  :  there  are  few  facts  so  well  vouched  for,  and  few 
trutlis  so  fully  believed  in,  as  the  account  ujion  which  I  have 
grounded  my  story. 

1  shall  not  nam*;  the  island  ofl'  our  New  England  coast  upon 


X  PREFACE. 

which  these  events  happened,  and  these  strange  appearances 
were  seen  ;  for  islanders  are  the  most  sensitive  creatures  in  the 
world  in  all  that  relates  to  their  places  of  abode. 

I  have  changed  the  time  of  the  action  —  which  was  before 
the  war  of  our  Revolution  —  to  that  of  the  great  contest  in 
Spain  ;  as  the  reader  will  see,  in  my  making  use  of  the  Chris- 
tian name  of  Lord  Wellington  in  a  way  to  allude  to  the  popular 
belief,  during  the  early  ages,  in  the  return  of  King  Arthur  to 
the  world.  —  In  putting  my  hero  on  horseback,  in  not  allowing 
him  to  die  quietly  in  his  bed,  and,  indeed,  in  whatever  I  thought 
might  heighten  the  poetical  effect  of  the  tale,  I  have  not  hesi- 
tated to  depart  from  the  true  account.  Nor  am  I  even  certain 
that  I  have  not  run  two  stories  into  one ;  it  being  many  years 
since  these  wonderful  events  were  told  to  me.  I  mention  this 
here,  lest  the  islanders  might  be  unnecessarily  provoked  at  my 
departures  from  the  real  facts,  when  they  come  to  read  my 
tale,  and  the  critics  be  put  to  the  trouble  of  useless  research  in 
detecting  mistakes. 

Of  the  second  story  I  would  only  say,  that,  having  in  it  noth- 
ing of  the  marvellous,  and  being  of  a  less  active  character  than 
the  first,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  it  should  fail  of  be- 
ing generally  estimated  according  to  its  relative  merit. 

Of  the  remaining  pieces,  the  first  four  have  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Review,  and  are  hei-n^v^published  with  the  consent 
of  my  friend  Bryant,  who  was  the  editor  of  that  late  work  ;  — 
The  Husband  and  Wife's  Grave,  The  Dying  Raven,  Fragment 
of  an  Epistle,  and  The  Little  Beach-Bird.  The  others  arc, 
A  Clump  of  Daisies,  The  Pleasure-Boat,  and  Daybreak. 

One  of  these,  "  Fragment  of  an  Epistle,"  is  taken  from  a 
letter  which  I  wrote  to  amuse  myself  while  recovering  from  a 
severe  illness.  I  must  be  pardoned  giving  it  as  a  fragment. 
The  lines  are  much  more  broken  than  is  usual  in  the  octo- 
syllabic verse,  though  Milton  has  taken  great  liberties  in  this 
respect  in  his  two  exquisite  little  poems  in  the  same  measure. 
This  he  could  have  done  neither  tln'ough  ignorance  nor  care- 
lessness.   Lord  Byron  has  justly  spoken  of  "  the  fatal  facility  " 


PREFACE.  XI 

of  this  measure  ;  and  he  might  as  truly  have  remarked  upon 
its  fatal  monotony,  unless  varied  in  all  possible  ways.  So  far 
from  abrupt  pauses  not  being  allowable  in  it,  there  is  scarcely 
a  measure  in  the  language  which  becomes  so  wearisome  with- 
out them  ;  as  every  one  must  have  experienced  in  reading 
Scott,  notwithstanding  his  rapidity  and  spirit. 

I  am  fullv  aware  of  the  truth  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  re- 
mark  in  the  Preface  to  his  History  of  the  World  : — "  True  it 
is,  that  the  judgements  of  all  men  arc  not  agreeable  ;  nor  (wliich 
is  more  strange)  the  affection  of  any  one  man  stirred  up  alike 
with  examples  of  like  nature  :  But  every  one  is  touched  most 
with  that  which  most  nearly  seemcth  to  touch  his  own  private  ; 
or  otherwise  best  suitclh  with  his  apprehension."  I  therefore 
do  not  look  to  see  all  pleased,  —  content  if  enough  are  grati- 
fied to  encourage  me  to  undertake  something  more  than  this 
small  beginning;  which  is  of  size  sufficient,  if  it  should  fail  to 
be  thought  well  of,  and  large  enough  to  build  further  upon, 
should  it  be  liked.  Let  me  end,  then,  in  the  words  of  old 
Cowell  :  —  "  That  which  a  man  saith  well  is  not  to  be  rejected 
because  he  hath  some  errours.  No  man,  no  book,  is  void  of 
imperfections.  And,  therefore,  reprehend  who  will  in  God's 
name,  that  is  with  sweetness  and  without  reproach." 

Cambridge,  1827. 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  SECOND   EDITION   OF    THE   POEMS. 


Although  the  additions  here  made  to  the  first  edition  of  the 
Poems  are  considerable,  yet  being  in  their  poetical  characteris- 
tics essentially  the  same,  I  will  stop  to  make  only  a  remark  or 
two  upon  the  principal  of  them,  —  "  Factitious  Life." 

Looking  at  the  more  serious  cast  of  thought  which  it  grad- 
ually takes,  and  particularly  at  the  religious  character  of  the 
close,  some  may  think  it  would  have  been  more  self-consistent 
had  there  been  less  of  a  light  manner  and  homely  familiarity 
at  the  setting  out. 

It  would  hardly  have  been  more  natural,  however ;  for,  open 
our  eyes  where  we  may,  they  soon  fall  on  the  homely  or 
trifling ;  and  as  I  did  not  aim  at  form,  but  simply  at  following 
on  after  life,  making  some  passing  observations  and  such  re- 
flections as  might  flow  from  them,  if  tried  by  these,  the  poem 
will  be  found,  I  believe,  in  agreement  with  the  run  of  circum- 
stances, and  congruous  in  itself. 

The  objection  of  others  may  lie  against  the  close,  as  of  too 
serious  a  character  to  grow  naturally  out  of  the  rest ;  for  I  am 
aware  of  the  influence  that  the  habitual  course  of  our  feelings 
and  associations  has  over  the  perceptions  ;  and  that,  contrary  to 
the  course  of  them  in  this  poem,  the  tlioughts  of  men  are  too 
apt  to  run  from  the  serious  to  the  light :  I  am  sorry  for  it. 

In  fine,  there  is  nt)  want  of  congruity  in  a  reflecting  mind, 
if,  having  first  chanced  upon  the  trifling,  it  falls  gradually  into 


PUKFACE.  XUl 

the  serious,  and  at  last  rests  in  that  which  should  be  the  home 
of  all  our  thoughts,  the  religious. 

The  alterations  now  made  in  the  poems  of  the  first  edition 
are  of  too  minute  a  kind  to  deserve  particular  mention.  Some 
of  them  were  introduced  in  consequence  of  remarks  which  I 
occasionally  met  with  in  the  public  notices.  Nor  have  I  dis- 
tinguished between  those  which  were  made  in  a  friendly  and 
those  made  in  a  detracting  spirit.  Not  to  avail  one's  self  of  the 
suggestions  of  a  friend  argues  a  wilful  pertinacity,  and  to  re- 
fuse to  gather  good  out  of  the  censoriousness  of  an  enemy 
savours  of  folly. 

Though  it  ill  becomes  an  honest  man  to  bestow  public  com- 
mendation through  mere  personal  partiality,  yet  fairly  intention- 
ed  public  praise  affects  him  who  receives  it  like  an  act  of  per- 
sonal kindness.  Within  the  last  few  years  I  have  had  cause 
to  feel  this  deeply;  and  without  affecting  humility,  let  me  add, 
that,  if  attended  with  any  pain,  it  has  been  from  that  sense  of 
unworthiness  which  commendation  oftentimes  occasions. 

Cambridge,  1833. 


VOL.  I. 


THE    BUCCANEER. 


Buy  with  thy  blac  herd, 
I  rede  llial  Ihoii  blin, 
And  gone  set  the  to  shrive, 
With  sorrow  of  thi  syn  ; 

Ze  met  with  the  inerchandes 
And  made  them  fid  bare  ; 
It  es  ^de  reason  and  right 
That  zc  evill  misfare. 

For  when  ze  stode  in  sowre  strenkith, 
Ze  war  all  to  stout. 

Laurence  Minot. 


The  island  lies  iiiiu;  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore, 

Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 
Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home. 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  .sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  h'-aviiig  sea, 

The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silcntlv, — 
How  beautiful  I  no  ri|)j)les  break  the  reach. 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  tlic  beach. 


4  THE    BUCCANEER. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side ; 

From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 

Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell,  nor  pastoral  bleat, 

In  former  days  within  the  vale  ; 

Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet ; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale  ; 
Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men ; 
Pirate  and  w^recker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear ; 

A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 

Subdued  and  holy  fear ; 
Each  motion  gentle ;  all  is  kindly  done.  — 
Come,  listen  how  from  crime  the  isle  was  won. 


THE    BUCCANEER. 
I. 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew  Lee 

Held  in  this  isle  unquestioned  sway  ; 

A  dark,  low,  brawny  man  was  he  ; 

His  law,  —  "  It  is  my  way." 
Beneath  his  thick-set  brows  a  sharp  light  broke 
From  small  gray  eyes ;  his  laugh  a  triumph  spoke. 

II. 

Cruel  of  heart,  and  strong  of  arm, 

Loud  in  his  sport,  and  keen  for  spoil, 

He  little  recked  of  good  or  iiarm, 

Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil ; 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there  were ; 
Speak  mildly,  when  he  would,  or  look  in  fear. 

III. 

Amid  the  uproar  of  the  storm. 
And  by  the  lightning's  sharp,  red  glare, 
Were  seen  Lee's  face  and  sturdy  form ; 
His  axe  glanced  quick  in  air. 

Whose  corpse  at  morn  lies  swinging  in  the  sedge  ? 

There  's  blood  and  hair,  Matt,  on  thy  axe's  edge. 

IV. 

"  Ask  him  who  floats  there  ;  let  him  tell ; 

I  make  the  brute,  not  man,  my  mark. 

Who  walks  the  clifls,  needs  heed  liiiii  well! 

Last  night  was  fearful  dark. 
Think  ve  thi-  lashing  waves  will  spare  or  feel  ? 
An  ugly  gash  I  —  Thrsr  rocks  —  Ihey  cut  like  steel." 

1- 


6  THE    BUCCANEER. 

V. 

He  wiped  his  axe  ;  and  turning  round, 
Said  with  a  cold  and  hardened  smile, 
"  The  hemp  is  saved  ;  the  man  is  drowned. 
Will  let  him  float  awhile  ? 

Or  give  him  Christian  burial  on  the  strand  ? 

He  '11  find  his  fellows  peaceful  under  sand." 

VI. 

Lee's  waste  was  greater  than  his  gain. 

"  I  '11  try  the  merchant's  ti-ade,"  he  thought, 

"  Though  less  the  toil  to  kill  than  feign,  — 

Things  sweeter  robbed  than  bought. 
But,  then,  to  circumvent  them  at  their  arts  ! " 
Ship  manned,  and  spoils  for  cargo,  Lee  departs. 

VII. 

'T  is  fearful,  on  the  broad-backed  waves. 

To  feel  them  shake,  and  hear  them  roar : 

Beneath,  unsounded,  dreadful  caves ; 

Around,  no  cheerful  shore. 
Yet  'mid  this  solemn  world  what  deeds  are  done  ! 
The  curse  goes  up,  the  deadly  sea-fight 's  won ;  — 

VIII. 

And  wanton  talk,  and  laughter  heard. 

Where  sounds  a  deep  and  awful  voice. 

There  's  awe  from  that  lone  ocean-bird : 

Pray  ye,  when  ye  rejoice  ! 
"  licave  prayers  to  priests,"  cries  Lee  :  "  I  'm  ruler  here ! 
These  fellows  know  full  well  whom  thev  should  (ear!" 


Tlir.     UrtCANKER. 
IX. 

The  ship  works  hai'd ;  the  seas  run  high ; 

Their  white  tops,  Hashing  through  the  night, 

Give  to  the  eager,  straining  eye 

A  wild  and  shifting  liglit. 
"  Hard  at  the  pumps !  —  The  leak  is  gaining  fast ! 
Lighten  the  ship  I  —  The  devil  rode  that  blast !  " 

X. 

Ocean  has  swallowed  for  its  food 

Spoils  thou  didst  gain  in  murderous  glee  ; 

Matt,  could  its  waters  wash  out  blood, 

It  had  been  well  for  thee. 
Crime  fits  for  crime.     And  no  repentant  tear 
Hast  thou  for  sin  ?  —  Then  wait  thine  hour  of  fear. 

XI. 

The  sea  has  like  a  plaything  tost 

That  heavy  hull  the  livelong  night. 

The  man  of  sin,  —  he  is  not  lost : 

Soft  breaks  the  morning  light. 
Torn  spars  and  sails,  —  her  lading  in  the  dee}),  — 
The  ship  makes  port  with  slow  and  labouring  sweep. 

XII. 

Within  a  Spanish  port  she  rides. 

Angry  and  soured,  Lee  walks  her  deck. 

"  So,  peaceful  tradr  a  ciirsf  betides?  — 

And  thou,  good  ship,  a  wreck! 
Ill  luck  ill  cliaiiLjr  I —  Il(»l   cliccr  ye  up.  iiiv  men  I 
Rigged,  and  at  sea,  and,  then,  old  work  again!" 


8  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XIII. 

A  sound  is  in  the  Pyrenees ! 

Whirling  and  dark  comes  roaring  down 

A  tide  as  of  a  thousand  seas, 

Sweeping  both  cowl  and  crown  : 
On  field  and  vineyard,  thick  and  red  it  stood ; 
Spain's  streets  and  palaces  are  wet  with  blood. 

XIV. 

And  wrath  and  terrour  shake  the  land ; 

The  peaks  shine  clear  in  watchfire  lights  ; 

Soon  comes  the  tread  of  that  stout  band,  — 

Bold  Arthur  and  his  knights. 
Awake  ye,  Merlin  !  Hear  the  shout  from  Spain  ! 
The  spell  is  broke  !  —  Arthur  is  come  again  I  — 

XV. 

Too  late  for  thee,  thou  young,  fair  bride  I 

The  lips  are  cold,  the  brow  is  pale, 

That  thou  didst  kiss  in  love  and  pride ; 

He  cannot  hear  thy  wail. 
Whom  thou  didst  lull  with  fondly  murmured  sound ; 
His  couch  is  cold  and  lonely  in  the  ground. 

XVI. 

He  fell  for  Spain,  —  her  Spain  no  more  ; 

For  he  was  gone  who  made  it  dear ; 

And  she  would  seek  some  distant  shore, 

Away  from  strife  and  fear. 
And  wait  amid  her  sorrows  till  the  day 
His  voice  of  love  should  call  her  thence  away. 


TIIK    BUCCANEER. 
XVII. 

Lee  feigned  him  grieved,  and  bowed  him  low. 

"T  would  joy  his  heart,  could  he  but  aid 

So  good  a  lady  in  her  woe, 

He  meekly,  smoothly  said. 
Witli  wealtii  and  servants  she  is  soon  aboard, 
And  tliat  white  steed  slie  rode  beside  her  lord. 

XVIII. 

The  sun  goes  down  upon  the  sea ; 

The  sliadows  gather  round  her  home. 

'•  How  like  a  pall  are  ye  to  me ! 

My  home,  how  like  a  tomb  ! 
O,  blow,  ye  flowers  of  Spain,  above  his  head! 
Ye  will  not  blow  o'er  me  when  I  am  dead." 

XIX. 

And  now  the  stars  are  burning  bright ; 

Yet  still  she  's  looking  toward  the  shore 

Beyond  the  waters  black  in  night. 

"  I  ne'er  shall  sec  thee  more  ! 
Ye  're  many,  waves,  yet  lonely  seems  your  flow ; 
And  I  'm  alone,  —  scarce  know  I  where  I  go." 

XX. 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou  sad  one  on  the  sea ! 

The  wash  of  waters  hills  thee  now ; 

His  arm  no  more  will  |)illow  thee. 

Thy  fingers  on  his  brow. 
H(!  is  not  near,  to  iinsh  thee,  or  to  save. 
The  ground  is  his,  the  sea  nnist  be  thv  grave. 


10  THE    BUCCANEER. 

xxr. 

The  moon  comes  up  ;  the  night  goes  on. 

Why,  in  the  shadow  of  the  mast, 

Stands  that  dark,  thoughtful  man  alone  ? 

Thy  pledge  I  —  nay,  keep  it  fast ! 
Bethink  thee  of  her  youth  and  sorrows,  Lee ; 
Helpless,  alone,  —  and,  then,  her  trust  in  thee. 

XXII. 

When  told  the  hardships  thou  hadst  borne, 

Her  words  to  thee  were  like  a  charm. 

With  uncheered  grief  her  heart  is  worn ; 

Thou  wilt  not  do  her  harm  ? 
He  looks  out  on  the  sea  that  sleeps  in  light. 
And  growls  an  oath,  —  "  It  is  too  still  to-night  I  " 

XXIII. 

He  sleeps  ;  but  dreams  of  massy  gold 

And  heaps  of  pearl,  —  stretches  his  hands  ; 

But  hears  a  voice,  —  "111  man,  withhold  I " 

A  pale  one  near  him  stands. 
Her  breath  comes  deathly  cold  upon  his  cheek ; 
Her  touch  is  cold ;  he  hears  a  piercing  shriek  ;  — 

XXIV. 

He  wakes !  —  But  no  relentings  wake 

Within  his  angered,  restless  soul. 

"  What,  shall  a  dream  Matt's  purpose  shake  ? 

The  gold  will  make  all  whole. 
Thy  merchant  trade  had  nigh  unmanned  thee,  lad ! 
What,  balk  my  chance  because  a  woman  's  sad  ?  " 


THE    BUCCANEER.  1% 

XXV. 

He  cannot  look  on  her  mild  eye  ; 

Her  patient  words  his  spirit  quell. 

Within  that  evil  heart  there  lie 

Tlie  hates  and  fears  of  hell. 
His  si>eech  is  short ;  he  wears  a  surly  brow. 
There  's  none  will  hear  the  sluriek.     What  fear  ye  now  ? 


xxvr. 

The  workings  of  the  soul  ye  fear ; 

Ye  fear  the  power  that  goodness  hath  ; 

Ye  fear  the  Unseen  One  ever  near, 

Walking  his  ocean  path. 
From  out  the  silent  void  there  comes  a  cry,  — 
"  Vengeance  is  mine  I     Thou,  murderer,  too,  shalt  die 


xxvii. 

Nor  dread  of  ever-during  woe, 

Nor  the  sea's  a^vful  solitude, 

Can  make  thee,  ^vretch,  thy  crime  forego. 

Then,  bloody  hand,  —  to  blood  I 
The  scud  is  driving  wildly  overhead  ; 
The  stars  burn  dim  ;  the  ocean  moans  its  dead. 

XXVIII. 

Moan  for  the  living ;  moan  our  sins, — 

Tlif  wralh  of  man  more  fierce  than  thine. 

Hark  !  still  thy  waves!  —  The  work  begins, — 

Lee  makes  the  deadly  sign. 
The  crew  glid<;  down  like  shadows.     Eye  and  Iniiid 
iSpeak  fearful  meanings  through  lln-  silcni   Icnid. 


12  The  buccaneer. 

XXIX. 

They  're  gone.  —  The  helmsman  stands  alone ; 

And  one  leans  idly  o'er  the  bow. 

Still  as  a  tomb  the  ship  keeps  on ; 

Nor  sound  nor  stirring  now. 
Hush,  hark !  as  from  the  centre  of  the  deep, 
Shrieks,  fiendish  yells  I  They  stab  them  in  their  sleep ! 

XXX. 

The  scream  of  rage,  the  groan,  the  strife, 

The  blow,  the  gasp,  the  horrid  cry. 

The  panting,  throttled  prayer  for  life, 

The  dying's  heaving  sigh. 
The  murderer's  curse,  the  dead  man's  fixed,  still  glare. 
And  fear's  and  death's  cold  sweat,  —  they  all  are  there. 

XXXI. 

On  pale,  dead  men,  on  burning  cheek, 
On  quick,  fierce  eyes,  brows  hot  and  damp, 
On  hands  that  with  the  warm  blood  reek. 
Shines  the  dim  cabin  lamp. 
Lee  looked.     "  They  sleep  so  sound,"  he,  laughing,  said, 
"  They  '11  scarcely  wake  for  mistress  or  for  maid." 

XXXII. 

A  crash !  They  force  the  door,  —  and  then 
One  long,  long,  shrill,  and  piercing  scream 
Comes  thrilling  'bove  the  growl  of  men. 
'T  is  hers  !  —  O  God,  redeem 

From  worse  than  death  thy  suffering,  helpless  child! 

That  dreadful  shriek  again,  —  sharp,  sharp,  and  wild  I 


THE    BUCCANEER.  13 

XXXIII. 

It  ceased.  —  "With  speed  o'  th'  lightning's  flash, 
A  loose-robed  form,  with  streaming  hair, 
Shoots  by.  —  A  leap,  —  a  quick,  sliort  splash ! 
'T  is  gone  I  —  and  nothing  there  I 

The  waves  have  swept  away  the  bubbling  tide. 

Bright-crested  waves,  how  calmly  on  they  ride  I 

XXXIV. 

She  's  sleeping  in  her  silent  cave, 

Nor  hears  the  loud,  stern  roar  above, 

Nor  strife  of  man  on  land  or  w^ave. 

Young  thing  I  her  home  of  love 
She  soon  has  reached  I  Fair,  unpolluted  thing ! 
They  harmed  her  not  I  —  Was  dying  suflering  ? 

XXXV. 

O,  no  I  —  To  live  when  joy  was  dead, 

To  go  with  one,  lone,  pining  thought, 

To  mournful  love  her  being  wed, 

Feeling  what  death  had  wrt)ught ; 
To  live  the  child  of  woe,  nor  shed  a  tear, 
Bear  kindnes.s,  and  yet  share  not  joy  or  fear ; 

XXXVI. 

To  look  on  man,  and  deem  it  strange 
That  he  on  things  of  earth  should  brood, 
When  all  the  thronged  and  busy  range 
To  her  was  solitude,  — 
O,  this  was  bitterness  I     Deatli  came  and  pressed 
Her  wearied  lids,  and  brought  tlie  sick  heart  rest, 
vol..  I.  2 


14  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XXXVII. 

"Why  look  ye  on  each  other  so, 

And  speak  no  word  ?  —  Ay,  shalce  the  head ! 

She  's  gone  where  ye  can  never  go. 

What  fear  ye  from  the  dead  ? 
They  tell  no  tales  ;  and  ye  are  all  true  men  ;  — 
But  wash  away  that  blood  ;  then,  home  again ! 

XXXVIII. 

'T  is  on  your  souls  ;  it  will  not  out ! 

Lee,  why  so  lost  ?    'T  is  not  like  thee  ! 

Come,  where  thy  revel,  oath,  and  shout  ? 

"  That  pale  one  in  the  sea !  — 
I  mind  not  blood.  —  But  she,  —  I  cannot  tell ! 
A  spirit  was  't  ?  —  It  flashed  like  fires  of  hell  I 

XXXIX. 

"  And  when  it  passed  there  was  no  tread  ! 

It  leaped  the  deck.  —  Who  heard  the  sound  ? 

I  heard  none  !  —  Say,  what  was  it  fled  ? 

Poor  girl !  and  is  she  drowned  ?  — 
Went  down  these  depths  ?  How  dark  they  look,  and  cold! 
She  's  yonder !  stop  her !  —  Now !  —  there  I  —  hold  her ! 
hold!" 

XL. 

They  gaze  upon  his  ghastly  face. 

"  What  ails  thee,  Lee  ?  and  why  that  glare  ?  " 

"  Look !  ha !  't  is  gone,  and  not  a  trace ! 

No,  no,  she  was  not  there  !  — 
Who  of  you  said  ye  heard  her  w^hen  she  feU  ? 
'T  was  strange  !-I  '11  not  be  fooled !— WiU  no  one  tell  ?  " 


THE    BUCCANEER.  15 

XI,  I. 

He  paused.     And  soon  the  wildness  passed. 

Then  came  the  tingling  flush  of  shame. 

Remorse  and  fear  are  gone  as  fast. 

'*  The  silly  thing 's  to  blame 
To  quit  us  so.     ■  T  is  plain  she  loved  us  not ; 
Or  she  had  stayed  awhile,  and  shared  my  cot." 

XLII. 

And  then  the  ribald  laughed.     The  jest, 

Though  old  and  foul,  loud  laughter  drew ; 

And  fouler  yet  came  from  the  rest 

Of  that  infernal  crew. 
Note,  Heaven,  their  blasphemy,  their  broken  trust ! 
Lust  panders  mturder  ;  miuder  panders  lust  I 

XLIII. 

Now  slowly  up  they  bring  the  dead 

From  out  the  silent,  dim-lit  room. 

No  prayer  at  their  quick  burial  said ; 

No  friend  to  weep  their  doom. 
The  Inmgry  waves  have  seized  them  one  by  one  ; 
And,  swallowing  down  their  prey,  go  roaring  on. 

XLIV. 

Cries  Lee,  "  We  must  not  be  betrayed  ; 

'T  is  but  to  add  another  corse  ! 

Strange  words,  we  're  told,  an  ass  once  brayed : 

1  "11  iKVcr  Inist  :i  horse  I 
Out  I  throw  him  on  the  waves  alive  I  —  he  '11  swim  ; 
For  once  a  horse  shall  ride;  we  all  ride  iiim." 


16  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XLV. 

Such  sound  to  mortal  ear  ne'er  came 

As  rang  far  o'er  the  waters  wide. 

It  shook  with  fear  the  stoutest  frame  : 

The  horse  is  on  the  tide  ! 
As  the  waves  leave,  or  lift  him  up,  his  cry 
Comes  lower  now,  and  now  is  near  and  high. 

XLVI. 

And  through  the  swift  wave's  yesty  crown 
His  scared  eyes  shoot  a  fiendish  light, 
And  fear  seems  wrath.     He  now  sinks  down, 
Now  heaves  again  to  sight, 
Then  drifts  away  ;  and  through  the  night  they  hear 
Far  off  that  dreadful  cry.  —  But  morn  is  near. 

XLVII. 

O,  hadst  thou  known  what  deeds  were  done, 
When  thou  wast  shining  far  away, 
Wouldst  thou  let  fall,  calm-coming  sun, 
Thy  warm  and  silent  ray  ? 
The  good  are  in  their  graves  ;  thou  canst  not  cheer 
Their  dark,  cold  mansions  :  Sin  alone  is  here. 

XLVIII. 

"  The  deed 's  complete  !  The  gold  is  ours  ! 

There,  wash  away  that  bloody  stain ! 

Pi-ay,  who  'd  refuse  what  fortune  showers  ? 

Now,  lads,  we  lot  our  gain  ! 
Must  fairly  share,  you  know,  what 's  fairly  got  ? 
A  truly  good  night's  work  !  Who  says  't  was  not  ?  " 


THE    BUCCANEER.  17 

.    XLIX. 

There 's  song,  and  oath,  and  gaming  deep. 

Hot  words,  and  laugliter,  mad  carouse  ; 

There 's  naught  of  jjrayer,  and  Httle  sleep  ; 

The  devil  keeps  the  house  ! 
"  Lee  cheats  I  "  cried  Jack.    Lee  struck  him  to  the  heart. 
"  Tliat  's  foul !  "  one  muttered.  —  "  Fool !  you  take  your 
part  I  — 

L. 

"  The  fewer  heirs,  the  richer,  man  I 

Hold  forth  your  palm,  and  keep  your  prate ! 

Our  life,  we  read,  is  but  a  span. 

What  matters  soon  or  late  ?  " 
And  when  on  shore,  and  asked.  Did  many  die  ? 
"  Near  half  my  crew,  poor  lads  ! "  he  'd  say,  and  sigh. 

LI. 

Within  the  bay,  one  stormy  night, 

'I'lif  isle-men  saw  boats  make  for  shore, 

Willi  here  and  there  a  dancing  liglit. 

That  (lashed  on  man  and  oar. 
When  hailed,  the  rowing  stopped,  and  all  was  dark. 
''  Ha  I  lantern-work  I  —  We  Ml  home  I   They  're  playing 


shark  ! " 


I, II. 

Next  day  at  noon,  wiliiin  the  town. 

All  stare  and  wonder  much  to  see 

INIatt  and  his  men  come  strolling  down; 

Boys  shouting,  "  Here  comes  Tjce  !  " 
"  Thy  ship,  good  Lee  ?  "  "  Nol  many  leagues  from  shore 
()iir  >liip  l)V  eiiaMce  l<M)|^  Inc." —  They  jraiind  no  more. 

2' 


18  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LIII. 

He  and  his  crew  were  flush  of  gold. 

"  You  did  not  lose  your  cargo,  then  ?  " 

"  Where  all  is  fairly  bought  and  sold, 

Heaven  prospers  those  true  men. 
Forsake  your  evil  ways,  as  we  forsook 
Our  ways  of  sin,  and  honest  courses  took ! 

LIV. 

"  Would  see  my  log-book  ?     Fah'ly  writ. 

With  pen  of  steel,  and  ink  of  blood ! 

How  lightly  doth  the  conscience  sit ! 

Learn,  truth  's  the  only  good." 
And  thus,  with  flout,  and  cold  and  impious  jeer, 
He  fled  repentance,  if  he  scaped  not  fear. 

LV. 

Remorse  and  fear  he  drowns  in  drink. 

"  Come,  pass  the  bowl,  my  jolly  crew  ! 

It  thicks  the  blood  to  mope  and  think. 

Here  's  merry  days,  though  few  !  " 
And  then  he  quaffs.  —  So  riot  reigns  within  ; 
So  brawl  and  laughter  shake  that  house  of  sin. 

LVI. 

Matt  lords  it  now  throughout  the  isle ; 

His  hand  falls  heavier  than  before  ; 

All  dread  alike  his  frown  or  smile. 

None  come  within  his  door. 
Save  those  who  dipped  their  hands  in  blood  with  him  ; 
Save  those  who  laughed  to  see  the  white  horse  swim. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  19 

LVII. 

"  To  night 's  our  anniversary  ; 

And,  mind  me,  lads,  we  have  it  kept 

With  royal  state  and  special  glee  I 

Better  with  those  who  slept 
Their  sleep  that  night  would  he  be  now,  who  slinks  I 
And  health  and  wealth  to  him  who  bravely  drinks  I  *' 

Lviir. 

The  words  they  speak,  we  may  not  speak ; 

The  tales  they  tell,  we  may  not  tell. 

Mere  mortal  man,  forbear  to  seek 

The  secrets  of  that  hell  I 
Their  shouts  grow  loud :  'T  is  near  mid-hour  of  night : 
What  means  upon  the  waters  that  red  light  ? 

LIX. 

Not  bigger  than  a  star  it  seems. 

And  now  't  is  like  the  bloody  moon  I 

And  now  it  shoots  in  hairy  streams  I 

It  moves  I  —  'T  will  reach  us  soon  I 
A  ship  I  and  all  on  fire  I  —  hull,  yard,  and  mast  I 
Her  sails  are  sheets  of  flame  I  —  she  's  nearing  fast ! 

LX. 

And  now  she  rides  upright  and  still, 

Shedding  a  wild  and  lurid  light 

Around  the  cove,  on  inland  liill. 

Waking  the  gloom  of  night. 
All  breathes  of  terrour !  men,  in  dumb  amaze, 
Gaze  on  each  other  in  rhr  horrid  blaze. 


20  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXI. 

It  scares  the  sea-birds  from  their  nests  ; 

They  dart  and  wheel  with  deafening  screams  ; 

Now  dark,  —  and  now  their  wings  and  breasts 

Flash  back  disastrous  gleams. 
Fan*  Light,  thy  looks  strange  alteration  wear ;  — 
The  world's  great  comforter,  —  why  now  its  fear  ? 

LXII. 

And  what  comes  up  above  the  wave, 

So  ghastly  white  ?     A  spectral  head ! 

A  horse's  head  !     (May  Heaven  save 

Those  looking  on  the  dead, — 
The  waking  dead  !)     There,  on  the  sea  he  stands,  — 
The  Spectre-Horse  !     He  moves  I  he  gains  the  sands ; 

LXIII. 

And  on  he  speeds!     His  ghostly  sides 

Are  streaming  with  a  cold,  blue  light. 

Heaven  keep  the  wits  of  him  who  rides 

The  Spectre-Horse  to-night ! 
His  path  is  shining  like  a  swift  ship's  wake  ; 
Before  Lee's  door  he  gleams  like  day's  gray  break. 

i.xiv. 

The  revel  now  is  high  within  ; 

It  bursts  upon  the  midnight  ah'. 

They  little  think,  in  mirth  and  din, 

What  spirit  waits  them  there. 
As  if  tlie  sky  became  a  voice,  there  spread 
A  sound  to  appall  the  living,  stir  the  dead. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  21 

LXV. 

The  Spirit-Steed  sent  up  the  neigh  ; 

It  seemed  the  living  trump  of  licll, 

Sounding  to  call  the  damned  away, 

To  join  the  host  that  fell. 
It  ransr  alonsf  the  vaulted  sky  :  the  shore 
Jarred  hard,  as  when  the  thronging  surges  roar. 

LXVI. 

It  rang  in  ears  that  knew  the  sound ; 

And  hot,  Hushed  cheeks  are  blanched  with  fear. 

Ha  I  why  does  Lee  look  wildly  round  ? 

Thinks  he  the  drowned  horse  near  ? 
He  drops  his  cup,  —  his  lips  are  stiff  with  fright. 
Nay,  sit  thee  down,  —  it  is  thy  banquet  night. 

LXVII. 

"  I  cannot  sit ;  —  I  needs  must  go  : 

The  spell  is  on  my  spirit  now. 

I  go  to  dread,  —  I  go  to  woe  !  " 

O.  who  so  weak  as  thou, 
Strong  man  I     His  hoofs  upon  the  door-stone,  see, 
The  Shadow  stands  !     His  eyes  are  on  thee,  Lee ! 

LXVIII. 

'i"hy  hair  pricks  u|)I  —  "  O,  T  must  bear 
His  damj),  cold  breath  1      It  cliills  my  frame  I 
His  eyes,  —  their  ni'ar  and  dreadful  glare 
Speaks  that  I  nmst  not  name  !  " 
Art  Iliad  to  iiKiiiiil  that    I  lorx- I  —  >•  A  power  williin, 
I  must  obey,  cries,  '  Mouni  lln'c,  man  of  sin'.'" 


22  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXIX. 

He  's  now  upon  the  Spectre's  back, 

With  rein  of  silk  and  curb  of  gold. 

'T  is  fearful  speed  !  —  the  rein  is  slack 

Within  his  senseless  hold  ; 
Borne  by  an  unseen  power,  right  on  he  rides. 
Yet  touches  not  the  Shadow-Beast  he  strides. 

LXX. 

He  goes  with  speed  ;  he  goes  with  dread ! 

And  now  they  're  on  the  hanging  steep ! 

And,  now,  the  living  and  the  dead. 

They  '11  make  the  horrid  leap  ! 
The  Horse  stops  short,  —  his  feet  are  on  the  verge ! 
He  stands,  like  marble,  high  above  the  sm-ge. 

LXXI. 

And,  nigh,  the  tall  ship  's  burning  on. 

With  red,  hot  spars  and  crackling  flame ; 

From  hull  to  gallant,  nothing 's  gone  ;  — 

She  burns,  and  yet 's  the  same  ! 
Her  hot,  red  flame  is  beating,  all  the  night. 
On  man  and  Horse,  in  then-  cold,  phosphor  light. 

LXXII. 

Through  that  cold  light  the  fearful  man 

Sits  looking  on  the  burning  ship. 

Wilt  ever  rail  again,  or  ban  ? 

How  fast  he  moves  the  lip  ! 
And  yet  he  does  not  speak,  or  make  a  sound ! 
What  see  you,  Lee  ?  the  bodies  of  the  drowned  ? 


TFIE   BUCCANEER.  23 

LXXIII. 

"  I  look,  where  mortal  man  may  not,  — 

Down  to  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 

I  see  the  dead,  long,  long  forgot ; 

I  see  them  in  then-  sleep. 
A  dreadful  power  is  mine,  which  none  can  know. 
Save  he  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death  and  woe." 

LXXIV. 

Thou  mild,  sad  mother,  silent  moon, 

Thy  last,  low,  melancholy  ray 

Shines  towards  him.     Quit  him  not  so  soon! 

Mother,  in  mercy,  stay  I 
Despair  and  death  are  with  him ;  and  canst  thou, 
With  that  kind,  earthward  look,  go  leave  him  now  ? 


I.  XXV. 

O,  thou  wast  born  for  worlds  of  love ; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 

AVliate'er  thou  look'st  on  :  hosts  above, 

In  that  soft  light  of  thine. 
Burn  softer ;  earth,  in  silvery  veil,  seems  heaven. 
Thou  'rt  going  down  I  —  hast  loft  him  nnforgiven 


i.xxvr. 

The  far,  low  west  is  bright  no  more. 

How  still  it  is  I     No  sound  is  heard 

At  sea,  or  all  along  the  shore. 

But  cry  of  passini;  l)ir(l. 
Thou  living  thing,  —  ;iiiil  dar'st  tlioii  come  so  lu-ar 
These  wild  and  ghastly  shapes  of  dealli  jhwI  Ii  ar? 


24  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXXVII. 

And  long  that  thick,  red  light  has  shone 
On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still  bay, 
On  man  and  Horse  that  seem  of  stone, 
So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  lurid  fire  less  fiercely  burns  : 
The  night  is  going,  —  faint,  gray  dawn  returns. 

LXXVIII. 

That  Spectre-Steed  now  slowly  pales, 
Now  changes  like  the  moonlit  cloud ; 
That  cold,  thin  light  now  slowly  fails, 
"Which  wrapt  them  like  a  shroud. 

Both  ship  and  Horse  are  fading  into  air. 

Lost,  mazed,  alone,  see,  Lee  is  standing  there ! 

LXXIX. 

The  morning  air  blows  fresh  on  him ; 

The  waves  are  dancing  in  his  sight ; 

The  sea-birds  call,  and  wheel,  and  skim. 

O  blessed  morning  light ! 
He  doth  not  hear  their  joyous  call ;  he  sees 
No  beauty  in  the  wave,  nor  feels  the  breeze. 

LXXX. 

For  he 's  accursed  from  all  that 's  good  ; 

He  ne'er  must  know  its  healing  power. 

The  sinner  on  his  sin  shall  brood, 

And  wait,  alone,  his  hour. 
A  stranger  to  earth's  beauty,  human  love,  — 
No  rest  below  for  him,  no  hope  above ! 


THE    BUCCANEER.  25 

LXXXI. 

The  sun  beats  hot  upon  his  head. 

He  stands  beneath  the  broad,  fierce  blaze, 

As  stilt"  and  cold  as  one  that 's  dead : 

A  troubled,  dreamy  maze 
Of  some  unearthly  hoiTour,  all  he  knows, — 
Of  some  wild  hoiTour  past,  and  coming  woes. 

LXXXII. 

The  gull  has  found  her  place  on  shore ; 

The  sun  gone  down  again  to  rest ; 

And  all  is  still  but  ocean's  roar : 

There  stands  the  man  unblest. 
But,  see,  he  moves,  —  he  turns,  as  asking  where 
His  mates  :  —  Why  looks  he  with  that  piteous  stare  ? 

LXXXIII. 

Go,  get  ye  home,  and  end  your  mirth  I 

Go,  call  the  revellers  again  I 

They  're  fled  the  isle  ;  and  o'er  the  earth 

Are  wanderers,  like  Cain. 
As  he  his  door-stone  passed,  the  air  blew  chill. 
The  wine  is  on  the  board ;  Lee,  take  your  fill  I 

LXXXIV. 

"  There  's  none  to  meet  me,  none  to  cheer  : 

The  seats  are  empty,  —  lights  burnt  out ; 

And  I,  alone,  nmst  sit  me  here  : 

Would  I  conid  hear  their  shout!" 
He  ne'er  shall  lii;ir  it  more  —  more  taste  his  wine  I 
Silent  h(;  sits  within  the  still  moonshine. 
VOL.    I.  '.i 


26  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXXXV. 

Day  came  again  ;  and  up  he  rose, 

A  weary  man,  from  his  lone  board  ; 

Nor  merry  feast,  nor  sweet  repose, 

Did  that  long  night  afford. 
No  shadowy-coming  night,  to  bring  him  rest,  — 
No  dawn,  to  chase  the  darkness  of  his  breast  I 

Lxxxvr. 

He  walks  within  the  day's  full  glare, 
A  darkened  man.     Where'er  he  comes. 
All  shun  him.     Children  peep  and  stare  ; 
Then,  frightened,  seek  their  homes. 

Through  all  the  crowd  a  thrilling  horrour  ran. 

They  point  and  say,  — > "  There  goes  the  wicked  man 

Lxxxvn. 

He  turns,  and  curses  in  his  wrath 
Both  man  and  child ;  then  hastes  away 
Shoreward,  or  takes  some  gloomy  path  ; 
But  there  he  cannot  stay  : 

Terrour  and  madness  drive  him  back  to  men ; 

His  hate  of  man  to  solitude  again. 

LXXXVIII. 

Time  passes  on,  and  he  grows  bold  ; 

His  eye  is  fierce,  his  oaths  are  loud  ; 

None  dare  from  Lee  the  hand  withhold  ; 

He  rules  and  scoffs  the  crowd. 
But  still  at  heart  there  lies  a  secret  fear ; 
For  now  the  year's  dread  round  is  drawing  near. 


»» 


THE    BUCCANEER.  27 

LXXXIX. 

He  laughs,  but  he  is  sick  at  heart ; 

He  swcar.-^,  but  he  turns  deadly  pale  ; 

His  restless  eye  and  sudden  start,  — 

They  tell  the  dreadful  tale 
'i'lnit  will  be  told  :  it  needs  no  words  from  thee, 
'i'liou  self-sold  slave  to  fear  and  misery. 

xc. 

Bond-slave  of  sin  I  again  tlie  light  I 
"  Ha  I  take  me,  take  me  from  its  blaze  I " 
Nay,  thou  must  ride  the  Steed  to-night ! 
But  other  weary  days 
And  nights  must  siiine  and  darken  o'er  thy  head, 
Ere  thou  shalt  go  with  Him  to  meet  the  dead. 

xci. 

Again  the  ship  lights  all  the  land ; 

Again  Lee  strides  the  Spectre-Beast; 

Again  upon  the  elitf  they  stand. 

This  once  is  he  released  I  — 
Gone  ship  and  Horse ;  but  Lee's  last  hope  is  o'er ; 
\or  Iniiirh,  nor  scoff,  nor  rage,  can  help  him  more. 

Xcil. 

His  s|)iiit  licard  that  Spirit  say, 

"  Listen  I —  I  twice  have  come  to  thee. 

f)nc<'  nion-,  —  and  tln-n  a  dreadful  way! 

And  thou  must  go  with  me  I" 
Ay,  cling  to  earth  as  saih)r  lo  tlit-  locK  I 
Sea-swept,  sucked  down  in  tlir  trriuciKlous  shock, 


28  THE    BUCCANEER. 


XCIII. 

He  goes !  —  So  thou  must  loose  thy  hold, 

And  go  with  Death  ;  nor  breathe  the  balm 

Of  early  air,  nor  light  behold. 

Nor  sit  thee  in  the  calm 
Of  gentle  thoughts,  where  good  men  wait  their  close. 
In  life,  or  death,  where  look'st  thou  for  repose  ? 


xciv. 

Who  's  sitting  on  that  long,  black  ledge. 

Which  makes  so  far  out  in  the  sea, 

Feeling  the  kelp-weed  on  its  edge  ? 

Poor,  idle  Matthew  Lee ! 
So  weak  and  pale  ?     A  year  and  little  more, 
And  bravely  did  he  lord  it  round  the  shore. 

xcv. 

And  on  the  shingle  now  he  sits, 

And  rolls  the  pebbles  'neath  his  hands  ; 

Now  walks  the  beach  ;  now  stops  by  fits, 

And  scores  the  smooth,  wet  sands  ; 
Then  tries  each  cliff,  and  cove,  and  jut,  that  bounds 
The  isle ;  then  home  from  many  weary  rounds. 

xcvi. 

They  ask  him  why  he  wanders  so, 

From  day  to  day,  the  uneven  strand  ? 

"  I  wish,  I  wish  that  I  might  go ! 

But  I  would  go  by  land  ; 
And  there  's  no  way  that  I  can  find  ;  I  've  tried 
All  day  and  night !  "  —  He  seaward  looked,  and  sighed. 


TllK    ULCCA.NEKR.  29 

XCVII. 

It  brought  the  tear  to  many  an  eye, 

That,  once,  his  eye  hatl  made  to  quuil. 

'•  Lee,  go  with  us  ;  our  sloop  is  nigh  ; 

Come  I  help  us  hoist  her  sail." 
He  shook.  —  "  You  know  the  Spirit- Horse  I  ride  ! 
He  '11  let  me  on  the  sea  with  none  beside  !  " 

XCVIII. 

He  views  the  ships  that  come  and  go, 

Looking  so  like  to  living  things. 

O  I  't  is  a  proud  and  gallant  show 

Of  bright  and  broad-spread  wings. 
Making  it  light  around  them,  as  they  keep 
Their  course  right  onward  through  the  unsounded  deep. 

xcix. 

And  where  the  far-off  sand-bars  lift 

Their  backs  in  long  and  narrow  line, 

The  breakers  shout,  and  leap,  and  shift. 

And  loss  the  sparkling  brine 
Into  the  air  ;  then  rush  to  mimic  strife : 
Glad  creatures  of  the  sea,  and  f.ill  of  life  I  — 

c. 

But  not  to  Lee.     He  sits  alone ; 

No  fellowship  nor  joy  for  him  ; 

Borne  down  by  woe,  —  but  not  a  moan,  — 

Though  tears  will  sometimes  dim 
That  asking  eye.     (),  how  his  worn  tiionghts  crave  — 
Nof  joy  again,  t)ut  rest  within  the  grave. 
3  * 


30  THE    BUCCANEER. 

CI. 

The  rocks  are  dripping  in  the  mist 

That  lies  so  heavy  oil  the  shore ; 

Scarce  seen  the  running  breakers  ;  —  list 

Their  dull  and  smothered  roar  ! 
Lee  hearkens  to  their  voice.  —  "I  hear,  I  hear 
You  call.  —  Not  yet !  —  I  know  my  time  is  near  I " 

CII. 

And  now  the  mist  seems  taking  shape, 

Forming  a  dim  gigantic  ghost,  — 

Enormous  thing !     There  's  no  escape  ; 

'T  is  close  upon  the  coast. 
Lee  kneels,  but  cannot  pray.  —  Why  mock  him  so  ! 
The  ship  has  cleared  the  fog,  Lee,  see  her  go  ! 

cm. 

A  sweet,  low  voice,  in  starry  nights. 

Chants  to  his  ear  a  plaining  song; 

Its  tones  come  winding  up  the  heights. 

Telling  of  woe  and  wrong; 
And  he  must  listen  till  the  stars  grow  dim, 
The  song  that  gentle  voice  doth  sing  to  him. 

CIV. 

O,  it  is  sad  that  aught  so  mild 

Should  bind  the  soul  with  bands  of  fear ; 

That  strains  to  soothe  a  little  child, 

The  man  should  dread  to  hear. 
But  sin  hath  broke  the  world's  sweet  peace,  —  unstrung 
The  harmonious  chords  to  which  the  ansfels  suno-. 


THE    BLCCANKBR.  31 

CV. 

Ill  thick,  iliirk  nii^lits  he  'd  take  his  seat 

High  up  the  clifls,  and  feel  them  shake, 

As  s\\'nng  the  sea  with  heavy  beat 

Below.  —  and  hear  it  break 
With  savage  roar,  then  pause  and  gather  strength, 
And,  then,  come  tumbling  in  its  swollen  length. 

CVT. 

But  he  no  more  shall  haunt  the  beach, 

Nor  sit  upon  the  tall  cliff's  crown. 

Nor  go  the  round  of  all  that  reach. 

Nor  feebly  ?it  him  down, 
Watching  the  swaying  weeds  :  —  another  day, 
And  he  '11  have  gone  far  hence  that  dreadful  way. 

CVII. 

To-night  the  charmed  number  's  told. 

"  Twice  have  I  come  for  thee,"  It  said. 

"  Once  more,  and  none  shall  thee  behold. 

Come  I  live  one  I  —  to  llic  dead  I  "  — 
So  hears  his  soul,  and  fears  the  gathering  night ; 
Yet  sick  and  weary  of  the  soft,  calm  light. 

CVIII. 

Again  he  sits  in  that  still  room  ; 

All  day  he  leans  at  that  still  board  ; 

None  to  bring  comfort  to  his  gloom. 

Or  speak  a  friendly  word. 
Weakened  with  fear,  lone,  haniiled  by  remorse, 
Poor,  shattered  wretch,  there  waits  he  that  pale  Horse. 


32  THE    BUCCANEEft. 

CIX. 

Not  long  he  waits.     Where  now  are  gone 
Peak,  citadel,  and  tower,  that  stood 
Beautiful,  while  the  west  sun  shone, 
And  bathed  them  in  his  flood 

Of  airy  glory  ?  —  Sudden  darkness  fell ; 

And  down  they  went,  peak,  tower,  citadel. 

ex. 

The  darkness,  like  a  dome  of  stone, 

Ceils  up  the  heavens.     'T  is  hush  as  death,  — 

All  but  the  ocean's  dull,  low  moan. 

How  hard  he  draws  his  breath  ! 

He  shudders  as  he  feels  the  working  Power. 

Arouse  thee,  Lee  I  up  !  man  thee  for  thine  hour ! 

CXI. 

'T  is  close  at  hand  ;  for  there,  once  more, 
The  burning  ship.     Wide  sheets  of  flame 
And  shafted  fire  she  showed  before  ;  — 
Twice  thus  she  hither  came ;  — 
But  now  she  rolls  a  naked  hulk,  and  throws 
A  wasting  light ;  then  settling,  down  she  goes. 

CXII. 

And  where  she  sank,  up  slowly  came 

The  Spectre- Horse  from  out  the  sea. 

And  there  he  stands !     His  pale  sides  flame. 

He  '11  meet  thee  shortly,  Lee. 
He  treads  the  waters  as  a  solid  floor ; 
He  's  moving  on.     I^ee  waits  him  at  the  door. 


THi:    BUCCANEKR.  33 

CXIII. 

They  're  met.  —  -I  know  iliou  com'st  lor  me," 

Lee's  spirit  to  the  Specti*e  said  ; 

'•  I  know  that  I  must  go  with  thee  : 

Take  me  not  to  the  dead. 
It  was  not  I  alone  that  did  the  deed  I  "  — 
Dreadful  the  eye  of  that  still,  Spectral  Steed ! 


cxiv. 

Lee  eannot  tnrn.     There  is  a  force 

In  that  fixed  eye,  which  holds  him  fast. 

How  still  thev  stand,  —  the  man  and  Horse  I 

"  Thine  hour  is  almost  past." 
"  O,  spare  me,"  cries  the  wretch,  '•  thou  fearful  One 
"  The  time  is  come,  —  I  must  not  go  alone." 


I  55 


cxv. 

"  I  'm  weak  and  faint.     O,  let  me  stay  !  " 
"  Nay,  murderer,  rest  nor  stay  for  thee !  " 
The  Horse  and  man  are  on  their  way  ; 
He  bears  him  to  the  sea. 

Hard  breathes  the  Spectre  through  the  silent  night ; 

Fierce  from  his  nostrils  streams  a  deathly  light. 

cxvi. 

He  's  on  the  beach  ;  but  stops  not  there  ; 

He 's  on  the  sea,  —  that  dreadful    Horse! 

Lee  flings  and  writhes  in  wild  despair. 

In  vain  I      The  Spirit-Corse 
Molds  him  hy  learful  spell  ;  —  In-  eiuuiol  leap  : 
Within  that  horrid  light  he  rides  the  deep. 


34  THE    BUCCANEER. 

cxvir. 

It  lights  the  sea  around  then*  track,  — 
The  curling  comb,  and  steel-dark  wave  : 
And  there  sits  Lee  the  Spectre's  back ;  — 
Gone  !  gone  !  and  none  to  save ! 

They  're  seen  no  more  ;  the  night  has  shut  them  in. 

May  Heaven  have  pity  on  thee,  man  of  sin ! 


CXVIII. 

The  earth  has  washed  away  its  stain ; 
The  sealed-up  sky  is  breaking  forth, 
Mustering  its  glorious  hosts  again. 
From  the  far  south  and  north ; 

The  climbing  moon  plays  on  the  rippling  sea. 

—  O,  whither  on  its  waters  rideth  Lee  ? 


THE    CHANGES   OF   HOME. 


If  it  he  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  torreniiess  of  spirit,  and  to  lie 
My  own  soul's  sepulchre. 

Byron. 

For  hours  she  sate ;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  heat  quick. 

Wordsworth. 

Pine  not  away  for  that  which  cannot  be. 

The  Pixner  op  Wakefield. 


The  Vale  was  beautiful ;  and,  when  a  child, 
1  l<lt  its  sunny  peace  come  warm  and  mild 
To  my  young  heart.     Within  high  hills  it  slept, 
Which  o'er  its  rest  their  silent  watches  kept, 
And  gave  it  kindly  shelter,  as  it  lay 
Tjike  a  fair,  hapjiy  infant  in  its  play. 
The  dancing  leaves,  the  grain  that  gently  bent 
In  early  light,  as  soft  winds  o'er  it  went; 
The  nc\v-fi<'dged,  panting  bird,  in  low,  short  llight, 
That  filled  my  little  bosom  with  delight, 
Yf't  mixed  with  fear,  lest  that  some  imsecn  liariu 
Should  spoil  its  jiist-born  jov.  —  :ill  llicsc  a  charm 
Tliff'W  round  my  iimrii  ol  ln'mif.      Here  I  stood. 
Where  from  its  coveri  in  ilic  iliick-hoiiglicd  wood. 


36  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

The  slender  rill  leaped  forth,  with  its  small  voice, 
Into  the  light,  as  seeming  to  rejoice 
That  it  was  free ;  and  then  it  coursed  away. 
With  gi*ass,  and  reeds,  and  pebbles  holding  play. 

It  seemed  the  Vale  of  Youth !  —  of  youth  untried, 
Youth  in  the  innocence  and  aU  the  pride 
Of  its  new  life  delighted ;  free  from  fears. 
And  griefs,  and  burdens,  borne  on  coming  years. 

Such  was  the  Vale.     And  then  within  it  played 
Edward,  a  child,  and  Jane,  a  little  maid. 
I  see  them  now  no  more,  where  once  they  stood 
Beside  the  brook,  or  'neath  the  sloping  wood. 
The  brook  flows  lonely  on,  o'er  mimic  mound 
No  longer  made  to  leap  with  fairy  bound. 
Then,  as  they  built  the  little  dam  and  mill, 
Their  tongues  went  prattling  with  the  prattling  rill, 
As  if  the  babes  and  stream  Avere  playmates  three, 
With  cheerful  hearts,  and  singing  merrily. 
The  tiny  labour  's  o'er ;  the  song  is  done 
The  chikken  sang ;  the  rill  sings  on  alone. 

How  like  eternity  doth  nature  seem 
To  life  of  man,  —  that  short  and  fitful  dream ! 
I  look  around  me  ;  nowhere  can  I  trace 
Lines  of  decay  that  mark  our  human  race. 
These  are  the  murmui-ing  waters,  these  the  flowers 
I  mused  o'er  in  my  earlier,  better  hours. 
Like  sounds  and  scents  of  yesterday  they  come.  — 
Long  years  have  past  since  this  was  last  my  home ! 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  37 

And  I  am  weak,  and  toil-worn  is  my  iramc ; 
But  all  the  Vale  shuts  in  is  still  the  same  : 
T  is  I  alone  am  changed  ;  they  know  rac  not : 
I  feel  a  stranger,  or  as  one  forgot. 

The  breeze  that  cooled  my  warm  and  youthful  brow 
Breathes  the  same  freshness  on  its  wrinkles  now. 
The  leaves  that  flung  around  me  sun  and  shade, 
While  gazing  idly  on  them  as  they  played, 
Are  holding  yet  their  frolic  in  the  air  ; 
The  motion,  joy,  and  beauty  still  are  there,  — 
But  not  for  me  I  —  I  look  upon  the  ground, 
Myriads  of  happy  faces  throng  me  round. 
Familiar  to  my  eye  ;  yet  heart  and  mind 
In  vain  would  now  the  old  communion  find. 
Ye  were  as  living,  conscious  beings,  then, 
With  whom  I  talked,  —  but  I  have  talked  with  men  ! 
With  uncheered  sorrow,  with  cold  hearts  have  met ; 
Seen  honest  minds  by  hardened  craft  beset ; 
Seen  hope  cast  down,  turn  deathly  pale  its  glow ; 
Seen  virtue  rare,  but  more  of  virtue's  show. 

Yet  there  was  one  true  heart :  that  heart  was  thine, 
Fond  Emmeline  I  and  every  beat  was  mine. 
It  stopt.  —  That  stUlness  I  —  up  it  rose,  and  spread 
Above  me,  awing,  vast,  strange,  living,  —  dead! 
No  feeble  grief  that  sobs  itself  to  rest,  — 
Bennm])ing  grief,  and  horronrs  filled  my  breast: 
Dark  death,  and  sorrow  dark,  and  tcrrour  blind, — 
They  made  my  soul  to  quail,  they  shook  my  mind, — 
Wild  rushings  passed  me  as  of  driving  w  iiid. 

VOL.    I.  4 


38 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 


The  storm  went  o'er  me.     Once  again  I  stand 
Amid  God's  works,  —  his  broad  and  lovely  land. 
It  is  not  what  it  was,  —  no,  not  to  me  ; 
I  cannot  feel,  though  lovely  all  I  see  ; 
A  void  is  in  my  soul ;  my  heart  is  dry  : 
They  touch  me  not,  —  these  things  of  earth  and  sky. 
E'en  grief  hath  left  me  now  ;  my  nerves  are  steel ; 
Dim,  pangless  dreams  my  thoughts  ;  —  Would  I  could 

feel! 
O,  look  on  me  in  kindness,  sky  and  earth ! 
Companions  were  we  almost  from  my  birth. 
Yet  stir  once  more  within  me  that  pure  love, 
Which  went  with  me  by  fountain,  hill,  and  grove. 
Delights  I  ask  not  of  ye  ;  let  me  weep 
Over  your  beauties  ;  let  your  spirit  sweep 
Across  this  duU,  still  desert  of  the  mind ; 
O,  let  me  with  you  one  small  comfort  find ! 
The  world,  the  world  has  stript  me  of  my  joy :  — 
Bless  me  once  more  ;  ye  blest  me  when  a  boy. 

Where  are  the  human  faces  that  I  knew  ? 
All  changed  ;  and  even  of  the  changed  how  few ! 
No  tongue  to  give  me  welcome,  bid  me  rest. 
In  sounds  to  stir  the  heart,  like  one  new  blest. 

There  stands  my  home,  —  no  more  my  home  ;  and 
they 
Who  loved  me  so,  —  they,  too,  have  passed  away. 
The  sun  lies  on  the  door-sill,  where  my  book 
I  daily  read,  and  fitted  line  and  hook. 
And  shaped  my  bow  ;  or  dreamed  myself  a  knight 
By  lady  loved,  by  champion  feared  in  fight. 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  39 

—  Gone  's  thy  fantastic  dream  ;  thy  lance  is  broke, 
Thy  hehiiet  cleft  I  —  No  knight  that  struck  the  stroke. 
'T  was  Time,  wlio  his  strong  hand  upon  thcc  laid, 
Unliorsi'd  thcc.  boy.  and  spoiled  tlicc  of  Thy  maid. 

Thus  siood  1  yesterday ;  and  years  far  gone, 
Present  and  coming  years,  to  me  were  one  ; 
And  long  have  been  so ;  for  the  musing  see 
Inward,  and  time  they  make  eternity ; 
Or  put  the  present  distant,  lill  ir  blends 
With  sad,  past  thoughts,  or  bright  ones  that  hope  sends. 

While  dreaming  so,  I  saw  an  aged  man 
Draw  near.     lie  bowed  and  spoke  ;  and  I  began,  — 

••  Canst  tell  me,  friend,  I  pray,  whose  home  may  be 
The  ancient  house  beneath  that  old,  gray  tree  ?  " 

"  They  are  a  stranger  race  ;  and  since  they  came 
We  've  learned  but  little  of  them  save  the  name. 
The  rumour  ran  tiicy  better  days  had  known; 
And  we,  in  pity,  would  liave  kindness  shown, — 
Kindness  of  fellowshi});  not  proffered  aid. 
To  be  with  forced  and  liumbling  thanks  repaid. 
We  saw  they  liked  it  not.     A  show  of  scorn 
Was  in  their  smile.     O,  they  were  higher  born, 
And  sought  out  our  retirement  where  to  hide 
Their  fcjrtune's  faU."' 

"  They  shouhl  have  liid  llicir  pridi-, — 
Shouhl  have  subdued  it  rather.     'T  is  a  thorn 
That  frets  the  heart;  a  chain  ii  is  that 's  worn 


40  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

On  man's  free  motions,  making  him  the  slave 
Of  those  he  hates,  because  he  dares  not  brave ;  — 
The  shrewd  man's  sober  scorn,  the  idler's  jeer; 
Bound  to  the  shame  of  which  he  lives  in  fear." 

"  Ay !  on  its  neighbom',  too,  it  shuts  the  door, 
As  that  is  shut.     It  was  not  so  before  ; 
For  there,  with  wife  and  son,  did  Dalton  dwell. 
'T -was  cheerful  welcome  then  and  kind  farewell; 
Farewell  so  land,  so  dwelling  on  the  heart, 
You  Avished  to  meet,  were  't  but  again  to  part. 
—  The  pau'  within  the  silent  grave  are  laid." 

"  But  he,  their  son  ?     They  had  a  son,  you  said  ?  " 

"  A  rich  relation  saw  the  boy  had  mind. 
'  Such  minds  a  market  in  the  world  must  find ' ;  — ■ 
So  said  he.  — '  And  the  boy  must  learning  have ; 
For  learning,  power,  and  wealth,  and  honours  gave.' 
'  Mind  and  a  market !  —  Will  he  seU  the  child 
As  slaves  are  sold  ? '  they  ask.     The  uncle  smiled. 
'  And  does  not  Nathan  teach  to  read  and  write^ 
To  spell  and  cipher,  —  letters  to  indite  ? 
What 's  learning,  then,  that  he  must  needs  go  seek 
So  far  from  home  ?  '  — '  They  call  it  Latin,  —  Greek.' 
Wisely  aU  farther  question  they  forbore ; 
And  looked  profound,  though  puzzled  as  before. 

"  The  years  passed  on.     Kind,  frequent  letters  came, 
Which  showed  the  man  and  boy  in  heart  the  same  ; 
By  a  hard  world  not  hardened,  nor  yet  vain 
That  much  he  knew,  nor  proud  with  all  his  gain. 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  41 

"  And  he  his  own  green  Vale  would  see  again, 
And  playmate  boys,  now  tm-ned  to  thoughtful  nieii. 
But  ere  the  time,  a  lever,  like  a  blast. 
Swept  through  our  homes  ;  and  fearful,  sudden,  fast, 
It  struck  down  young  and  old  :   To  see  them  fall. 
But  not  the  hand  that  smote  them,  shook  us  all. 
It  took  the  parents  in  their  hopes  and  joy ; 
They  went,  and  never  saw  again  their  boy." 

"  But  he  ?  " 

"•  Within  his  grief  there  lived  a  power, 
Withheld  him,  —  that  withholds  him  to  this  hour. 
Though  of  his  marriage  first  there  went  a  tale, 
Yet  soon  a  mournful  story  reached  the  Vale. 
A  cloud  shut  out  the  light  that  brightly  shone, 
Set  him  in  darkness,  sorrowing  and  alone. 

'•  Thy  cheek  is  sudden  pale!  thine  eye  is  dim! 
'1  ln)u  art  not  well !  " 

"  Nay,  on  !  say  what  of  liim  i " 

"  No  more  is  known.     Time  hath  assuaging  balm, 
And  time  the  tossing  of  the  mind  may  calm. 
But  there  's  a  silent  grief  that  finds  no  close, 
Till  death  has  laid  us  down  to  long  repose. 
That  sleej)  may  now  be  his  ;  or  he  may  go 
In  search  ol   rest,  no  rest  on  earth  to  know. 

"  But  why  so  sad  ?     Why  should  a  stranger  grieve 
Wlicii  strangiTs  iiioiirii .'     \'\u-  all  must  mom  ii  who  live!" 

'•  'I'linii  .-ijivcsl  Inic.      lint  '^r'u'i   iiiakrs  >ii:ini,'rr>  kin. 
'T  i.-i  thnic  from  crime  and  -itriow  man  i«-  uJii, 
4- 


42  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

To  preach,  woe  came  with  sin ;  yet  kindly  given 
To  touch  our  hearts  and  lead  us  back  to  heaven  :  — 
For  such  thy  garb  bespeaks  thee  ;  and  though  old, 
Thine  air,  thy  talk,  seem  slowly  to  unfold 
One  who  within  the  Vale,  in  manhood's  priine, 
Lifted  the  lowly  soul  to  thoughts  sublime." 

"  And,  stranger,  who  art  thou,  that  in  such  tones 
Greet'st  me  as  one  who  old  acquaintance  owns  ? 
Thy  face  is  as  a  book  I  cannot  read ; 
Nor  does  thy  voice  my  spirit  backward  lead. 
Stirring  old  thoughts." 

"  Nay,  nay,  thou  look'st  in  vain  ! 
For  on  my  face  the  sea's  and  desert's  stain  ; 
And  yet,  both  boy  and  man,  I  'm  in  thy  mind. 
Canst  nothing  here  of  Harry  Dalton  find  ?  " 

He  looked  again.     A  gleam  of  joy  arose. 
An  instant  gleam,  then  sank  in  sad  repose ; 
For  lines  he  saw  of  trouble,  more  than  age. 
And  words  of  grief  thick  written  on  the  page. 
Then  laughing  eyes  and  cheeks  of  youthful  glow 
Came  to  his  mind,  and  grief  that  it  was  so 
That  joy  and  youth  so  soon  away  should  go. 

He  gave  his  hand ;  but  nothing  either  said, 
And  slowly  turning,  home  in  silence  led. 

Low  were  the  words  at  our  repast,  and  few  ; 
Each  felt  the  silence  to  the  other  due. 


THE    CHANGES    OF     HOME,  43 

At  length  upon  our  thoughtful  minds  there  stole 
Converse  that  gently  won  the  saddened  soul. 

Then  toward  the  village  we  together  walked, 
And  of  old  friends  and  places  much  we  talked. 
Who  died,  who  left  them,  he  went  on  to  tell, 
And  who  within  their  fathers'  mansions  dwell. 

We  reached  a  shop.     No  lettered  sign  displayed 
The  owner's  name,  or  told  the  world  his  trade. 
But  on  its  door,  cracked,  rusty  hinges  swung ; 
And  there  a  hook  and  well-worn  horseshoe  hung. 
The  trough  was  dry  ;  the  bellows  gave  no  blast ; 
The  hearth  was  cold  ;  nor  sparks  flew  red  and  fast ; 
Labour's  strong  arm  had  rested.     Where  was  he. 
Brawny  and  bare,  who  toiled,  and  sang  so  free  ? 

But  soon  we  came  where  sat  an  aged  man. 
riis  thin  and  snow-white  hairs  the  breezes  fan, 
While  he  his  long  staff'  fingered,  as  he  spoke 
[n  sounds  so  low,  they  scarce  the  stillness  broke. 

"  Good  father  I "  said  my  guide.     He  raised  his  head, 
As  asking  who  had  spoke  ;  yet  nothing  said. 
"  The  present  is  a  dream  to  his  worn  brain  ; 
And  yet  his  mind  will  things  long  past  retain." 

My  friend  then  questioned  him  of  former  days, 
Min<:ling  with  what  he  asked  some  little  praise. 
Mis  old  eyes  cleared  ;  a  smile  around  them  played. 
As  on  my  friend  his  shaking  hand  he  laid, 


44  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

And  spoke  of  early  prowess.     Friends  he  named ; 
And  some  he  jjraised :  they  were  but  few  he  blamed. 

"  Dost  thou' remember  Dalton?"  asked  my  guide. 

"  Dalton  ?     Full  well !     His  little  son  beside,  — 
A  waggish  boy  !  —  It  will  not  from  my  thought,  — 
His  curious  look  as  I  my  iron  wrought. 
And,  as  the  fiery  mass  took  shape,  his  smile 
Made  me  forget  my  labour  for  a  wliile. 
Before  he  left  us,  and  when  older  grown. 
He  told  of  one  who  out  from  heaven  was  thrown^ 
Who  forged  huge  bolts  of  thunder  when  he  fell ; 
One-eyed  his  workmen,  and  his  shop  a  hell ; 
So,  called  me  Vulcan." 

"  Vulcan,  —  John,—  art  thou  ? 
What !  long-armed  John,  with  moist  and  smutty  brow  ?  " 

He  gazed  upon  me,  wondering  and  half  lost ; 
Something  it  could  not  grasp  his  mind  had  crossed. 
A  moment's  sti'uggle  in  his  face  betrayed 
The  effort  of  the  brain  ;  and  then  he  said, 
Eager  and  quick, — "  What !  come  !  —  Where,  where  's 

the  boy  ? 
And  looks  the  same  ?     'T  will  give  his  parents  joy !  " 
Then  talked  he  to  himself.     His  eyes  grew  dead ; 
He  felt  his  hands ;  nor  did  he  raise  his  head. 
Or  miss  us  as  we  left  him,  on  our  way 
Along  the  street  where  the  thick  village  lay. 

To  pass  the  doors  where  I  had  welcomed  been, 
And  none  but  unknown  voices  hear  within ; 


THE    CHANGES    OV    HOME.  45 

Strange,  wondering  faces  at  those  windows  see, 

Once  lightly  tapped,  and,  then,  a  nod  tor  me  I  — 

To  walk  lull  cities  and  to  teel  alone, 

From  day  to  day  to  listen  to  the  moan 

Oi"  mourning  trees,  —  't  was  sadder  here  unknown  I 

The  village  passed,  we  came  where  stood  aloof 
An  asred  cot  with  low  and  broken  roof. 
The  sun  upon  its  walls  in  quiet  slept ; 
Close  by  the  door  the  stream  in  silence  crept ; 
No  rustling  birds  were  heard  among  the  trees, 
That  high  and  silent  stood,  as  slept  the  breeze. 
The  cot  wide  open  ;  yet  there  came  no  sound 
Of  busy  steps  :  —  't  was  all  in  stillness  bound : 
Solenni,  yet  lovely  stillness,  as  a  spell. 
On  this  sweet  rest  and  mellow  sunshine  fell. 

And  there,  at  the  low  door,  so  fixed  is  one. 
As  if  for  years  she  'd  borne  with  rain  and  sun, 
All  mindless  of  herself,  and  lost  in  thought 
Which  to  her  soul  a  far-off  image  brought. 
About  her  shoulders  hangs  her  long,  white  hair ; 
She  clasps  the  post  with  fingers  pale  and  spare. 
And  forward  leans. 

"  What  sees  she  in  these  hills  ?  " 

"  'T  is  a  vain  fancy  that  her  vision  fills. 
Or,  rather,  notiiing  sees  she.      Hope  delayed. 
Worn,  feeble  ho|)e,  which  long  her  uiind  has  swayed, — 
Born  and  to  die  in  grid,  —  ilic  liopr  she  knows; 
A  soiuitiiiiig  gathered,  'mid  lier  elierislu-d  woes, 


46  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

From  sad  remembrances,  from  wishes  vain, 
Dim  fiction  of  the  mind  to  ease  its  pain." 


"  Her  name,  I  pray  thee 


» J) 


"  Dost  thou  wish  to  hear 
Of  two  true  lovers,  Jane,  and  Edward  Vere  ?  " 

"  She,  Jane  ?  and  look  so  old  ?  —  And  can  it  be 
That  woe  has  done  so  well  time's  work  with  thee ! " 

"  It  struck  her  in  her  youth,  as  doth  the  blast 
The  opening  flower !  and  then  she  withered  fast." 

"  Her  story  let  me  hear." 

"  It  soon  is  told ; 
Simple  though  sad ;  no  mystery  to  unfold, 
Save  that  one  great,  dread  mystery,  the  mind. 
Which  thousands  seek,  but  few,  in  part,  can  find. 
We  'U  rest  us  here,  beneath  the  broad  tree's  shade  ; 
The  sun  is  hot  upon  the  open  glade." 

"  A  little  farther !     Let  us  not  obtrude 
Upon  her  sorrows'  sacred  solitude." 

"  She  marks  us  not :   The  curious  passer-by. 
Children  who  pause,  and  know  not  why  they  sigh, 
Unheeded  all  by  that  fixed,  gleamy  eye. 
But  to  her  story.  —  She  and  that  fair  boy 
Shared  with  each  other  childhood's  griefs  and  joy. 
Their  studies  one ;  and  as  they  homeward  went 
With  busv  looks,  on  little  schemes  intent, 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  47 

Their  earnest,  happy  voices  might  be  heard 
Along  the  lane  where  sang  the  evening  bird. 

'•  Why  slionld  I  speak  of  what  you  know  so  well  ? 
What  chanced  wlicn  you  had  left  us  let  me  tell. 

'•  Time  changes  innocence  to  vh'tues  strong, 
Or  mars  the  man  with  passions  foul  and  wrong ; 
To  warm  and  new  emotions  time  gives  life, 
Fluttering  the  heart  in  strange  yet  pleasing  strife. 
Filling  the  quickened  mind  with  visions  fair,  — 
Hues  like  bright  clouds,  that  rest,  like  clouds,  on  air, 
Deepening  each  feeling  of  ihe  impassioned  soul, 
Round  one  loved  object  gathering  then  the  whole. 
So  deepened,  strengthened,  formed,  the  love  that  grew 
From  childhood  up,  and  bound  in  one  the  two. 
So  opened  their  fresh  hearts,  as  to  the  sun 
Tlie  young  buds  open  :  life  was  just  begun. 
For  this  it  is  to  live,  —  the  stir  to  feel 
Of  hopes,  fears,  wishes,  sadness,  joy,  the  zeal 
Tliat  bands  us  one  in  life,  death,  woe,  and  weal. 
And  life  it  is,  when  a  soft,  inward  sense 
Pervades  our  being,  when  we  draw  from  thence 
Delights  unutterable,  thoughts  that  throw 
Unearthly  l)rightness  round  this  world  below  ; 
Making  each  common  day,  each  common  thing. 
Something  peculiar  to  our  spirit  bring." 

I  saw  in  him  a  gentler  sense,  that  played 
'ADd  saddened  tliouL'tits  f)n  this  once  young,  fair  m;iid, 
As  plays  the  little  child,  unconscious  why 
The  rich,  black  pall,  and  that  long,  tremulous  sigh. 


48  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

"  Thy  talk  of  love,"  said  T,  "  restores  thy  youth. 
I  know,  decay  nor  age  awaits  on  truth ; 
And  he  who  keeps  a  simple  heart  and  kind 
May  something  there  of  early  feelings  find. 
For  in  all  innocent  and  tender  hearts 
A  spirit  dwells  that  cheerful  thoughts  imparts  ; 
'Midst  sorrow^s,  sunny  blessings  it  bestows 
On  those  who  think  upon  another's  woes." 

My  friend  went  on. 

"  At  length  drew  near  the  time 
That  he  must  travel  to  some  distant  cUme 
In  search  of  gain.     '  A  few  short  hours  of  life,' 
He  fondly  said,  '  and  thou  wilt  be  my  wife  I 
Then  long,  bright  days,  all  bright,  without  a  cloud  I '  - 
They  never  came ;  and  he  is  in  his  shroud. 
She  gazed  up  in  his  hopeful  face,  and  tried 
To  share  his  hope;  then  hung  on  him  and  sighed. 
Her  cheek  turned  pale,  and  her  dark  eye  grew  dim  ; 
And  then  through  tears  again  she  'd  look  on  him. 
In  his  full,  clear  blue  eye  an  answering  tear 
Spoke  comfort ;  for  it  told  that  she  was  dear, 
That  love  was  strong  as  hope ;  that  though  it  gi'ew 
'Mid  thoughts  less  sad  than  hers,  't  was  no  less  true, 
And  that  in  his  bold,  free,  and  cheerful  mind 
Her  timid  love  its  home  would  always  find. 

"  The  last  day  came,  —  a  long,  sad,  silent  day 
It  shone  on  two  sick  hearts ;  he  must  away. 
And  then  he  felt  how  hard  it  is  to  go 
From  one  so  dear,  and  leave  to  lonely  woe 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  49 

A  spirit  yearning  lor  lis  place  ol'  rest, 
And  kincUy  sympathies,  —  a  lover's  breast. 

"  And  he  is  gone,  gone  o'er  the  dreadful  wave. 
'  Spare  him  ye  dark,  wild  waters !  Heaven  him  save ! ' 
So  prayed  she ;  and  the  earnest  prayer  was  heard. 
A  year  past  by :  he  came  before  the  third. 

"  Then  from  the   sealed-np  heart  joy  gushed   once 
more. 
For  he  had  come,  come  from  the  stranger's  shore, 
To  his  own  Vale,  far  through  the  ocean's  roar. 

"  Ah  I  sweet  it  is  to  gaze  upon  the  face 
Long  seen  but  by  the  mind,  to  fondly  trace 
Each  look  and  smile  again :  't  is  life  renewed,  — 
How  fresh !     How  dim  was  that  by  memory  viewed ! 
And,  O,  how  pines  the  soul !  how  doth  it  crave 
Only  a  moment's  look  I     'T  is  in  the  grave, 
That  lovely  face ;  no  more  to  bless  thine  eyes. 
Nay,  wait,  thou  'It  meet  it  soon  in  yonder  skies. 

"  The  throbbing  pulse  beats  calm  again ;  and  they, 
Too  deeply  happy  to  be  loud  or  gay, 
Tiirough  all  their    childhood's   walks  —  the   lane,  the 

grove. 
Along  the  silvery  rill  —  would  slowly  move, 
Mingling  their  hopes'  bright  lights  with  softening  shades 
That    memory    threw    'mong    hill-tops,    streams,    and 

glades ; 
For  love  is  meditative  ;  close  it  clings. 
And  thouglitful,  to  earth's  simple,  silent  things. 

VOL.    I.  5 


50  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

"  And  thus  they  wandered ;  nearer  heart  to  heart ; 
For  they  had  known  how  hard  it  is  to  part, 
To  live  in  love,  yet  no  communion  hold,  — 
Day  following  day,  yet  all  we  feel  untold. 

"  And  she  would  listening  sit,  and  hear  him  speak 
Of  fierce  and  tawny  Tm'k,  and  handsome  Greek, 
Of  the  young  crescent  moon  on  sullen  brow,  — 
The  Cross  of  Christ  profaned  and  made  to  bow. 
—  And  what  I     Shall  He,  who  hung  above  our  head 
That  gentle  light,  see  that  whereon  He  bled 
Bend  to  the  image  of  the  thing  He  framed  ? 
Throng  to  the  Cross !    Our  Saviour's  Cross  is  shamed  I 

"  He  spoke  of  men  of  far  more  distant  climes. 
Their  idol  worship  stained  with  fearful  crimes  ; 
Of  manners  strange  and  dresses  quaint  would  tell ; 
But  most  upon  the  sea  he  loved  to  dwell. 
Its  deep,  mysterious  voice,  its  maddened  roar. 
Its  tall,  strong  waves,  the  white  foam,  and  the  shore, 
The  curse  that  on  its  gloomy  spmt  hung,  - — 
'  Thou  ne'er  shalt  sleep  I '  through  all  its  chambers  rung ; 
Till  closer  to  his  side  she  'd  trembling  draw. 
As  if  some  dim  and  fearful  thing  she  saw  ;  — 
So  would  this  awful  mystery  fold  her  round : 
She  quailed  as  though  she  heard  the  very  sound. 

"  '  And  must  you  on  the  heaving  sea  again,  — 
Mighty  destroyer,  deep,  broad  grave  of  men  ?  ' 
'  This  once ! '  said  he,  '  no  more  ! '     She  raised  her  eyes 
To  his  :  her  voice  upon  her  pale  lip  dies. 
Her  first-felt  sorrow  came  upon  her  mind, 
And  back  she  shrunk,  as  shrinks  he  whom  they  bind 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  51 

Once  more  upon  the  rack  :  —  poor,  weakened  wretch  ! 
Save  him  !     O,  not  again  its  fiery  stretch  I 

'•  Sharp  our  first  pangs ;  but  in  the  mind  is  life  ; 
J)ur  hearts  beat  strong,  and  fit  us  for  the  strife ; 
A  joyous  sense  still  breatlies  amid  our  grief, 
As  shoots,  in  drooping  boughs,  a  tender  leaf. 
But  when  woe  comes  again,  our  spirits  yield, 
Our  hearts  turn  faint,  we  cannot  lift  the  shield ; 
There  is  no  strength  in  all  our  bones ;  we  fall. 
And  call  for  mercy,  —  trembling,  prostrate,  call. 

"  The  sun  was  down,  and  softened  was  the  glow 
On  cloud  and  hill,  —  but  now  a  joyous  show. 
Quiet  the  air.     Its  light  the  young  moon  sent 
On  this  sad  pair  as  up  the  Vale  they  went. 
O,  gentle  is  thy  silver  ray,  fair  moon ! 
Meet  guide  art  thou  for  those  to  part  so  soon  ; 
There  's  pity  in  thy  look  ;  and  we  below 
Do  love  thee  most,  who  feel  the  touch  of  woe. 

"  And  up  among  the  distant  hiUs  are  they, 
To  meet  the  weekly  coach  upon  its  way. 
They  lingered  till  was  heard  a  rumbling  sound, 
Which  spread  among  the  hills  that  lay  around. 
Soon  rung  the  smart-cracked  whip  ;  and  then  the  cheer, 
And  quick,  sharp  tramp  told  the    strong   steeds   were 

near. 
'T  was  one  imploring  look;  and  then  she  fell 
Upon  his  neck  ;  they  uttered  no  farewell ; 
One  short,  (tonvulsive  clasp,  one  heart-sick  groan  ; 
No  other  look,  —  liiat  one  weak,  bitter  moan, — 


52  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

And  then  her  arms  fell  from  him.     All  is  o'er ! 
Poor  woe-struck  girl,  she  never  clasped  him  more ! 

"  The  coach  which  bore  him  sank  behind  the  hill. 
The  short,  quick  bustle  passed,  the  earth  is  still ; 
The  agony  is  over ;  a  dull  haze 
Hangs  round  her  mind,  —  upon  the  void  her  gaze. 
A  fearful  calm  is  on  that  fair,  sad  brow ! 
O,  who  shall  gently  part  its  dark  locks  now. 
Or  press  its  saintly  whiteness  ?  —  He  is  gone 
Who,  blessing,  kissed  thee ;  thou  must  go  alone, 
Alone  must  bear  thy  sorrows  many  an  hour. 
Widowed  of  aU  thy  hopes,  —  thy  grief  thy  dower ! 

"  She  sought  amid  her  daily  cares  for  ease. 
To  lose  all  sense  of  self,  and  others  please. 
The  heart  lay  heavy.     With  her  grief  was  fear. 
She  thought  a  gloomy  something  always  near. 
That  o'er  her  like  a  mighty  prophet  stood. 
Uttering  her  doom,  — '  For  thee  no  more  of  good ! 
Thy  joys  are  withered  round  thee  !     Read  the  date 
Of  all  thy  hopes  !    Thou  art  set  desolate  ! ' 

^    "A  year  went  by.     Another  came  and  passed. 
'  This  third,'  her  friends  would  say,  '  must  be  the  last ' ; 
Spake  of  his  coming,  then,  and  how  he  'd  look. 
She  turned  more  pale  ;  her  head  she  slowly  shook. 
And  something  muttered,  as  in  talk  with  one 
Whom  no  one  saw ;  then  said,  — '  It  must  be  done ! ' 

"  And  when  the  tale  was  told,  the  ship  had  sailed. 
That  nothing  more  was  known,  that  hope  had  failed ; 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  53 

'  It  is  fulfilled ! '  she  said ;  '  Prophetic  Power, 

Thou  told'st  me  true  !     'T  is  come,  —  the  fated  hour  I ' 

"  Her  look  was  now  like  cold  and  changeless  stone. 
She  left  her  home,  for  she  would  be  alone  ; 
Wandered  the  fields  all  o'er ;  and  up  the  hill, 
Wliere  last  they  parted,  stood  at  morning  still, 
And  far  along  that  region  gazed,  as  she 
In  the  blue  distance  saw  the  moving  sea ; 
And  of  the  far-off  mountain-mist  would  frame 
Long  spars,  and  sails,  and  speak  the  lost  ship's  name  ; 
And  watch  with  glee,  to  see  how  fast  it  neared ; 
Grow  restless  theji,  — '  It  ne'er  will  come,'  she  feared. 

"  Soon  rolls  the  mist  away ;  and  she  is  left, 
Of  sea,  ship,  lover,  shaping  hopes  bereft. 
Through  glistening  tears  she  'd  look,  and  see  them  go ; 
Then  to  the  Vale,  to  dwell  upon  her  woe. 
And  listen  to  the  dark  pine's  murmuring, 
Thinking  the  spirit  of  the  sea  did  sing 
Its  sad,  low  song :  for,  '  Such,'  would  Edward  say, 
'  Its  mourning  tones,  where  long  sand-beaches  lay.' 

"  But  when  tlirough  naked  trees  the  strong  wind  went, 
Roaring  and  fierce,  and  their  tossed  arms  were  rent, — 
With  sullen  mutterings,  then  a  moaning  sigh, — 
'  ll(;ar  them  I '  she  'd  shriek;  'the  waves  run  mountain- 
high!— 
They 'n;    mad  I — They  shake  her  in    their  wrath!  — 

she  's  down  !  — 
Went  to  th(!  bottom,  said  th('\  .' —  Did  all  drown  .' 
lie  told  me  lu!  would  eom<;,  and  I  should  be 
llih  own,  own  wile  !  —  There  's  mercy  in  the  sea  ?' 


54  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

"  The  spring  was  come  again.  —  There  is  a  grief 
Finds  soothing  in  the  bud,  and  bird,  and  leaf; 
A  grief  there  is  of  deeper,  withering  power, 
That  feels  death  lurking  in  the  springing  flower, 
That  stands  beneath  the  sun,  yet  circled  round 
By  a  strange  darkness,  —  stands  amid  the  sound 
Of  happy  things,  and  yet  in  silence  bound  ; 
Moves  in  a  fearful  void  amid  the  throng. 
And  deems  that  happy  nature  does  it  wi'ong ; 
Thinks  joy  unkind  ;  feels  it  must  walk  alone, 
That  not  on  earth  is  one  to  hear  its  moan, 
Or  bring  assuaging  sympathies,  or  bind 
A  broken  heart,  or  cheer  a  desert  mind. 
—  And  thus  she  walks  in  silent  loneliness  ; 
Sounds  come,  and  lovely  sights  around  her  press ; 
Yet  all  in  vain !  She  something  sees  and  hears, 
But  feels  not,  —  dead  to  pangs,  to  joys,  to  fears ; 
Nor  wishes  aught.     The  mind,  all  waste  and  worn, 
Lives  but  to  faintly  know  itself  forlorn ; 
Remembrance  of  past  joys  wellnigh  forgot, 
As  if  one  changeless  gloom  had  been  her  lot ; 
And,  sure,  had  thought  it  strange  that  there  should  be 
Blessings  in  store  for  one  so  poor  as  she. 

"  She  wandered  in  this  dull  and  fearful  mood, 
A  shadow  'mid  the  shadows  of  the  wood ; 
Would  sit  the  livelong  day  and  watch  the  stream. 
And  pore,  when  shed  the  moon  its  fainter  beam, 
In  di'eamy  thought,  upon  its  dreamy  light. — 
How  few  of  grief  have  felt,  can  feel,  the  might ! 

"  Season  of  thought !  The  leaves  are  dropping  now, 
Tawny  or  red,  from  off  their  parent  bough ; 


I 


THE    CHANGES  OF    HOME.  55 

Nor  longer  plays  their  glossy  green  in  air, 
Over  thy  slender  form  and  long,  dark  hair. 
Mvriads  of  gay  ones  fluttered  over  thee  ;  — 
Thon  now  look'st  up  at  that  bare,  silent  tree. 
Thou,  too,  art  waste  and  silent :  in  thy  spring 
The  cold  winds  came,  and  struck  thee  blossoming  I 
Nor  sound,  nor  life,  nor  motion,  in  thy  mind  : 
All  lost  to  sense,  what  would  thy  spirit  find  ? 

"  They  led  her  home.     She  went ;  nor  asked  to  stay. 
The  same  to  her  the  wood,  the  house,  the  way. 
The  talk  goes  on,  the  laugh,  the  daily  tasks  : 
She  stands  unmoved  ;  she  nothing  heeds  nor  asks. 
Above  the  fire,  sea-shells,  from  distant  lands. 
Once  ranged  by  her,  she  feels  with  idle  hands. 
And  what  the  soul's  communion  none  could  trace: 
No  gleamings  of  the  past  in  tliat  still  face ! 

"  They  marked,  when  spring  returned  and  warmer 

days. 
She  stood,  as  now,  on  yonder  hill  her  gaze. 
They  thought  not  what  it  meant,  nor  cared  to  know 
'i'he  glinnnerings  of  a  mind  whose  light  was  low. 
'JMiry  saw,  as  up  the  hill  ilic  hot  steeds  came, 
A  strange  and  sudden  shuddering  take  her  frame  ; 
And  llicii  a  childish  laugh;  and  ghiamed  her  eye. 
The  c(«i(h  went  down,  —  they  heard  a  scarce  breathed 

sigh. 
A  shade  j)assed  o'er  her  face,  as  (jiiickly  go 
Shadows  of  sailing  clouds  on  fields  below; 
Tlu'ii  all  was  clear  and  still;  the  niuneaning  smile, 
The  senseless  look  rtiunicd,  whirli  |l<-d  awhile. 


56  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

And  thus  her  dreamy  days,  months,  years  are  gone : 
Not  knowing  ^vhy  she  looks,  she  yet  looks  on. 
—  We  '11  homeward  now !  " 

Death  is  a  mom*nful  sight, 
But  what  is  death,  to  this  dread,  living  blight ! 

Thou  who  didst  form  us  with  mysterious  powers. 
And  give  a  conscious  soul,  and  call  it  ours ; 
Thou  who  alone  dost  know  the  strife  within 
Wilt  kindly  judge,  nor  name  each  weakness  sin. 
Thou  art  not  man,  who  only  sees  in  part. 
Yet  deals  unsparing  w^ith  a  brother's  heart ; 
For  Thou  look'st  in  upon  the  struggling  throng 
That  war,  —  the  good  with  ill,  —  the  weak  with  strong. 
And  those  Thy  hand  hath  wrought  of  finer  frame, 
When  grief  o'erthrows  the  mind,  Thou  wilt  not  blame  ; 
But  say,  "  It  is  enough !  "  —  and  pity  show,  — 
"  Thy  pain  shall  turn  to  joy,  thou  child  of  woe  I 
Thy  heart  at  rest,  and  dark  mind  cleared  away, 
Heaven's  light  shall  dawn  on  thee,  a  calmer  day." 

The  sun  was  nigh  its  set,  as  we  once  more, 
With  saddened  spirits,  reached  the  good  man's  door. 
And  there  we  rested,  with  a  gorgeous  sight 
Above  our  heads,  —  the  elm  in  golden  light. 
Thoughtful  and  silent  for  a  while,  he  then 
Talked  of  my  coming :  —  "  Thou  wilt  not  again 
From  thine  own  Vale  ?     And  we  will  make  thy  home 
Pleasant ;  and  it  shall  glad  thee  to  have  come." 
Then  of  my  garden  and  my  house  he  spoke, 
And  well-ranged  orchard  on  the  sunny  slope ; 


THK    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  57 

And  grow  more  bright  and  happy  in  his  talk 
Of  social  winter  eve  and  summer  walk. 
And,  while  I  listened,  to  my  sadder  soul 
A  sunnier,  gentler  sense  in  silence  stole ; 
Nor  iiad  I  heart  to  spoil  the  little  plan 
Which  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  kind  old  man. 

At  length  I  spake  :  — 

"  No !  here  I  must  not  stay. 
I  '11  rest  to-night,  —  to-morrow  go  my  way." 

He  did  not  urge  me.  —  Looking  in  my  face, 
As  he  each  feeling  of  the  heart  could  trace. 
He  pressed  my  hand,  and  prayed  I  might  be  blessed, 
Where'er  I  went,  —  that  Heaven  would  give  me  rest. 

The  silent  night  has  passed  into  the  prime 
Of  day,  —  to  thoughtful  souls  a  solemn  time. 
For  man  has  wakened  from  his  nightly  death 
And  shut-up  sense,  to  morning's  life  and  breath. 
He  sees  go  out  in  heaven  the  stars,  that  kept 
Their  glorious  watch  while  he  unconscious  slept,  — 
Feels  God  was  round  him  while  he  knew  it  not, — 
Is  awed,  —  then  meets  the  world,  and  God  's  forgot. 
So  may  I  not  forget  thee,  holy  Power ! 
Be  ever  to  me  as  at  this  calm  hour. 

The  tree-tops  now  are  glittering  in  the  sun  : 
Away  I     'T  is  time  my  journey  was  begun  I 

Why  shc^uld  I  stay,  when  all   I  loved  an-  lied, 
Strang*^  to  the  living,  knowing  hut  the  tlead,  — 


58  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

A  homeless  wanderer  through  my  early  home,  — 
Gone  childhood's  joy,  and  not  a  joy  to  come ! 
To  pass  each  cottage,  and  to  have  it  teU, 
Here  did  thy  mother,  here  a  playmate,  dwell ! 
To  think  upon  that  lost  one's  girlish  bloom, 
And  see  that  sickly  smile,  and  mark  her  doom,  — 
It  haunts  me  now,  —  her  dim  and  wildered  brain ; 
I  would  not  look  upon  that  eye  again ! 

Let  me  go,  rather,  where  I  shall  not  find 
Aught  that  my  former  self  will  bring  to  mind. 
These  old,  familiar  things,  where'er  I  tread, 
Are  round  me  like  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 
No !  wide  and  foreign  lands  shall  be  my  range : 
That  suits  the  lonely  soul,  where  aU  is  strange. 

Then,  for  the  dashing  sea,  the  broad,  full  sail ! 
And  fare  thee  well,  my  own  green,  quiet  Vale. 


FACTITIOUS     LIFE 


The  world  is  too  much  whU  us  ;  late  or  soon, 
Gelling  and  spendin;;,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon. 

Wordsworth. 

But  if  his  word  once  teach  us,  —  shoot  a  ray 
Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Tnilhs  undiscerned  but  by  thai  holy  light, — 
Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy,  baptized 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love, 
Has  eyes  indeed. 

COWPER. 

The  severe  schooles  shall  never  laugh  me  out  of  llie  philosophy  of  Hcrme.s,  that  this 
visible  world  is  but  a  picture  of  the  invisible,  wherein,  as  in  a  iwurtracl,  things  are  not 
truly,  but  in  eciuivocal  shapes,  and  as  they  counterfeit  some  more  real  substance  in  that 
invisible  Fabrick. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 


ScARCK  two-score  years  are  gone  since  life  began, 
Yet  many  changes  have  I  seen  in  man. 
But  when  I  'm  seated  in  my  easy  chair, 
(My  "  stede  of  bras,"  )  and  uj)  through  viewless  air 
Go  flying  on  by  generations  back, 
O,  tlicn,  what  changes  pass  I  in  iny  track! 
"  Cambuscan  bold"  might  course  o'er  many  a  clime; 
I  in  a  moment  compass  earth  and  time, 
Seeing  what  is  ami  li:iili  hrcn  ;   and   I  view 
Much  very  old,  that  sonic  think  very  new. 


60  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

The  grandam  to  the  modern  belle  complains, 
You  've  stole  my  waist.     May  you  endure  its  pains,  ■ 
Steel  and  the  cord !  —  In  his  fine  dandy  son 
The  ghost  of  Squaretoes  sees  himself  outdone. 
"  PuU  off  my  boots,"  he  cries,  with  crazy  Lear ; 
And  squaretoed  boots  and  Squaretoes  disappear.  — 
Fie,  scant-robed  ghost,  to  thus  cut  roundabout 
That  modest  miss,  and  so  play  "  Pedler  Stout." 
O,  take  no  more  than  is  thy  own,  —  the  train ; 
Shame  to  pure  eyes! — the  rest  give  back  again. 
If  on  such  errands  you  come  back  to  earth. 
You  '11  leave  us  all  as  naked  as  at  birth. 
Wife,  virgin,  mother,  see  them,  there  they  walk  I 

Dress  as  they  may,  good  Sir,  you  must  not  talk. 
For  learn,  in  times  like  these  you  're  not  to  say 
What  others  do,  though  done  in  open  day. 
Our  language,  not  our  conduct,  marks  the  mind. 
Let  that  be  pure,  and  this  must  be  refined. 
Ophelia's  words  would  shock  a  modern  belle. 

Prince  Hamlet,  had  Ophelia's  robe  that  swell  ? 
Did  the  wind  sway  it  thus  ?  the  janty  tread  ? 
What  said  Laertes  at  his  parting,  maid  ? 
"  The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
If  she  unmask  her  beauties  to  " 

O,  stuff! 
Have  you  no  other  subject  for  your  song, 
Than  whether  we  go  dressed  too  short  or  long  ? 
If  such  the  theme  on  which  you  mean  to  prose, 
Excuse  me,  while  you  lecture,  if  I  doze. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  61 

Nav,  I  am  done !  and  rest  on  this  as  true  :  — 
Though  Fashion  's  absolute,  she  's  fickle  too. 
E'en  while  I  WTite,  a  transformation  strange 
Is  going  on,  and  shows  that  all  is  change. 
And  by  the  time  these  lines  shall  be  in  press, 
They  '11  need  a  learned  note,  in  prose,  on  dress. 

Not  dress  alone ;  opinions  have  their  day ; 
That  is  deposed,  and  this  awhile  bears  sway ; 
That  mounts  the  throne  in  glistering  robes  once  more : 
They  who  adored,  then  scorned,  again  adore. 
To  scorn  again :   in  one  thing  constant  still,  — 
Themselves  ne'er  wrong,  whoe'er  the  tlirone  may  fill. 

Be  it  opinion,  notion,  fancy,  whim,  — 
E'en  what  you  wUl,  —  't  is  all  the  same  to  him. 
The  grave  philosopher ;  he  wheels  about 
His  system  to  the  crowd;  then  wheels  it  out. 
And  shoves  another  in ;  as  at  a  show 
Trees,  houses,  castles,  towns,  move  to  and  fro ;  — 
Ransacks  the  lumber-room  of  ancient  time. 
The  older,  better,  best  in  farthest  clime ; 
For  farthest  off  less  likely  to  be  known 
The  learned  theft :  tiie  thing  is  all  his  own ! 
Old  furniture,  new  varnished  and  new  named, 
Serves  all  his  ends ;  the  charlatan  is  lamed. 
O  simple  world,  well  gulled!  he  cries,  with  glee; 
Blest  "  second-hand  originality ! " 

From  Asia,  Africa,  Irom  (^Jreece,  Ijchold 
Rise  from  their  anti(pi(>  tombs  tlu;  sages  old. 
This  modern  son  of  light  descries,  with  dread. 
Their  shadowy  forms:     They  eonic,  the  mighty  dead! 

vol..  I.  (i 


62  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

For  pardon,  wronged  ones,  at  your  feet  I  fall. 
I  own  the  theft ;  but  strip  me  not  of  all ! 
Leave  me  my  name,  at  least,  if  nothing  more ; 
Save  one  from  general  scorn  whom  men  adore. 

The  name,  dishonored,  keep,  they  with  a  frown 
Reply  ;  then  turn,  and  to  their  graves  go  down. 

Although  upon  the  shore  of  time  we  stand, 
And  watch  the  ebb  and  flood  along  the  strand ; 
Although  what  is  has  been,  we  yet  may  trace 
A  silent  change  upon  the  world's  wide  face. 
'Mid  renovated  philosophic  schemes. 
And  arts  restored  or  lost,  plans,  fashions,  dreams, 
That,  idly  eddying,  jostle  side  by  side, 
Down  through  them  all  there  runs  a  steady  tide 
Of  subtile  alteration,  scarce  perceived  ; 
As  age,  of  hope  and  youthful  w^armth  bereaved, 
But  faintly  notes  a  change  so  soft  and  slow; 
So  gently  dropped  the  leaves  that  lie  below. 
But  bring  the  extremes  together ;  let  them  greet,  - 
The  elastic  boy,  and  man  on  tottering  feet. 
We  ask  amazed.  Can  these  indeed  be  one  ? 
Yes,  even  so  ;  w^e  see  what  Time  has  done,  — 
That  cunning  craftsman,  he  that  works  alway. 
Makes  and  unmakes,  nor  stops  for  night  nor  day, 
(For  they  his  bondmen  are,)  rules  while  he  toils, 
And  laughs  to  think  what  purposes  he  foils 
In  vain,  forecasting  man  ;  that,  fool  or  knave, 
( All  but  the  truly  wise)  he  holds  a  slave. 

Thou  universal  Worker,  thou  hast  wrought 
Vast  changes  in  the  world  of  heart  and  thought. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  63 

Once  flowed  the  stream  of  feeling,  like  a  brook, 

In  natnral  windings ;  now  we  feel  by  book. 

And  once,  as  joy  or  sorrow  moved  the  man, 

He  langhed  or  wept,  unguided  by  a  plan 

Of  ontward  port ;  for  in  his  riper  years 

The  boy  still  lived ;  and  anger,  love,  and  fears 

Spoke  out  in  action  vehement :  —  't  was  sti'ength, 

Strong  heart,  strong  thought ;  thought,  feeling,  ran  their 

length 
In  a  wild  grandeur,  or  they  passive  lay, 
Like  waters  circled  in  a  wooded  bay, 
That  take  from  some  slow  cloud  the  quivering  lights 
Flung  from  its  snowy  rifts  and  glittering  heights. 

Yes,  free  and  ever-varying  played  the  heart ; 
Great  Nature  schooled  it ;  life  was  not  an  art. 
And  as  the  bosom  heaved,  so  wrought  the  mind ; 
The  thought  put  fortli  in  act ;  and  unconfined. 
The  whole  man  lived  his  feelings.     Time  shall  say 
If  man  's  the  same  in  this  our  latter  day. 

The  same  I     I  scarcely  know  my  work  !     For  when 
I  take  my  rounds  among  the  throngs  of  men, 
E'en  he  who  almost  rivals  me  in  years 
Apes  youth  so  well,  his  head  of  hair  appears 
So  full  and  bright,  I  fain  would  hide  my  pate, 
Riil)  out  old  scores,  and  st:u-t  with  fn-slicr  date. 

Tlit-  youth  enacts  the  sage,  contemns  llic  dead, 
Lauds  liis  own  times,  and  cries.  Go  up,  bald  head  I 
Misses  and  little  masters  read  at  school 
Abridged  accounts  of  goveriunents  aiid  rule ; 


64  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Word-wise,  and  knowing  all  things,  nothing  know  ;  — 
Would  reap  the  harvest  ere  the  ground  they  sow. 
The  world 's  reversed  ;  boy  politicians  spout ; 
And  age  courts  youth,  lest  youth  should  tin:n  him  out. 

The  chUd  is  grown  as  cautious  as  threescore ; 
Admits,  on  proof,  that  two  and  two  are  four. 
He  to  no  aimless  energies  gives  way ; 
No  little  fauy  visions  round  him  play ; 
He  builds  no  towering  castles  in  the  sky, 
Longing  to  climb,  his  bosom  beating  high ; 
Is  told  that  fancy  leads  but  to  destroy ; 
You  have  five  senses ;  follow  them,  my  boy ! 
If  feeling  wakes,  his  parents'  fears  are  such. 
They  cry,  Don't,  dearest,  you  will  feel  too  much. 

Does  Time  speak  truth  ?     I  think  so.     Let  us  take 
A  single  passion,  for  example's  sake. 

They  talk  of  Love,  or,  rather,  once  they  did, 
When  I  was  young  :  I  'm  told  't  is  now  forbid  ; 
That  love,  with  ghosts,  is  banished  clean  away, 
And  heads  well  crammed,  the  system  of  the  day  ; 
That  should  you  beg  a  maid  her  ear  incline 
To  your  true  love,  she  bids  you  love  define ; 
Then  talks  of  Dugald  Stewart  and  of  Brown, 
And  with  philosophy  quite  puts  you  down ; 
On  mood  synthetical,  analysis. 
Descants  awhile.  —  Most  metaphysic  Miss ! 
"Who  'd  win  her  must  not  like  a  lover  look, 
But  grave  philosopher,  and  woo  by  book. 
Gaze  on  her  face,  and  swear  her  eyes  are  stars ; 
She  talks  of  Venus,  Jupiter,  and  Mars. 


I 


FACTITIOUS    LIFK.  65 

Spoak  of  the  moon  ;  its  phases  and  eclipse 
How  caused,  you  hear  from  learned  and  ruby  lips. 
Vow  you  will  pour  your  heart  out  like  a  flood  ; 
She  treats  on  venous  and  arterial  blood ; 
Drives  you  half  mad,  then  talks  of  motive  nerve, 
And  nerves  of  sense,  how  they  their  purpose  serve, 
And  how  expression  to  the  face  impart, 
How  all-important  to  the  painter's  art. 
Then  wonders  that  our  eyes  had  seen  so  well 
Before  we  read  about  their  nerves  in  Bell ; 
Thus,  for  love's  mazes,  leads  you  round  about, 
Through  arts  and  sciences,  an  endless  route. 

O,  no,  it  was  not  so  when  I  was  young  ; 
No  maiden  answered  love  in  such  a  tongue, 
Or  cared  for  planets  in  conjunction  hionght; 
With  her,  'twas  heart  to  heart,  andthouglit  to  thought. 
She  tell  what  blood  her  veins  and  arteries  liil  I 
Enough  for  her  to  feel  its  burning  thrill. 
She  gaze  upon  the  moon,  as  if  she  took 
An  observation  I     Love  was  in  her  look, 
All  gentle  as  the  moon.     Herself  perplex 
With  light  original,  or  light  reflex  I 
Enough  lor  her,  "  By  thy  pale  beam,"  to  say, 
"  Alone  and  pensive,  I  delight  to  stray  ; 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream." 
()  maid,  thrice  lovelier  than  thy  lovely  dream .' 

And  is  the  race  extinct?     ( )r  where  is  hid 
She,  with  llif  lihishiiig  cheek  ninl  (low  iiciist  lid, 
'JVemblingly  delicate,  and  lik<!  the  deer, 
(Jracefully  shy,  and  heanliful  in  fear? 


66  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Who  wept  with  good  La  Roche,  heard  Harley  tell 
His  secret  love,  then  bid  to  life  farewell  ?  — 
Dreamed  of  Venoni's  cottage  in  the  vale, 
And  of  Sir  Edward  senseless,  bleeding,  pale  ? 

Here  guard  thy  heart ;  nor  let  the  poison  creep 
Through  the  soul's  languor,  like  delicious  sleep. 
Wake  ere  its  rancour  eats  into  the  core : 
His  is  not  love ;  't  is  appetite,  —  no  more,  — 
A  finer  appetite,  like  love  so  dressed, 
Thou  'dst  be  its  victim,  pitied  and  distressed ; 
Than  smiles  or  innocence  wouldst  hold  more  dear 
A  wooing  sadness,  soft,  repentant  tear : 
Tears,  and  dark  falling  locks,  and  snowy  arm,  — 
In  aught  so  beautiful  can  there  be  harm  ? 

Ah  !  shun  Sir  Edward,  maiden,  for  thy  life  ; 
Nor,  once  his  mistress,  think  to  be  his  wife ; 
Or,  doomed  for  all  thy  days,  if  wife  in  name, 
To  live  thy  own,  thy  child's,  thy  husband's  shame, 
Be  taunt's,  suspicion's  slave  ;  nor  dare  to  raise 
Thine  eye,  though  w^ronged,  nor  hope  a  husband's  praise. 
There  's  reverence  in  true  love ;  it  dreads,  abhors, 
The  tainted  heart ;  it  sues,  protects,  adores. 
Then  win  thee  reverence,  if  that  thou  wouldst  win 
True  love  :  it  holds  no  fellowship  with  sin. 

Then  why  complain  romantic  love  is  dead. 
If  to  uncertain  paths  it  woo,  and  lead 
The  innocent,  half  doubting,  yet  half  won. 
Through  softening  twilight,  mingled  shade  and  sun, 
While  slowly  steal  the  lights  away,  and  creep 
The  shadows  by,  till  on  the  fearful  steep 


FACTITIOUS    MFE.  67 

Slio  i^taiuls  awiiile  at  pau:>e ;  then  looks  below ; 
Tlu'ii  leaps;  —  the  closing  waves  above  her  flow, 
Aiid  down  she  smks  for  ever  ? 

Verv  true. 
But  these  the  only  dangers  in  your  view  ?  — 
Or  would  you  lay  fair-flowering  nature  bare 
Because,  forsooth,  you  fear  a  canker  there  ? 
If  love  may  lure  romantic  minds  astray, 
Will  shrewder  heads  point  out  a  surer  way  ? 

To  live  alone,  cries  one,  how  dull  a  life  I 
I  think  I  'U  marry ;  and  straight  takes  a  wife. 
Soon  tired  of  home,  and  finding  life  still  dull. 
He  joins  his  club,  keeps  horses  and  a  trull ; 
Of  jokes  on  loving  husbands  cracks  a  score. 
And  coarse  as  heartless,  votes  a  wife  a  bore. 
'J'Ih;  widow-wife  secures,  her  loss  to  mend, 
A  kinder  husband  in  her  husband's //•ie«(^ ; 
Or,  unrestrained  by  love,  yet  held  by  vows. 
Though  scarce  more  fond,  less  faithless  than  her  spouse. 

One  weds  with  age;  and  should  she  keep  her  truth, 
A>  (tncc  she  sighed  for  wealth,  now  sighs  ibr  youth  ; 
Looks  on  its  mantling  cheek,  and  Ijrown,  crisp  hair. 
Then  turns  to  age  and  wrinkles,  in  despair ; 
Her  husband's  harlot,  feigns  love's  playful  wiles. 
So  deals  her  bargained  coaxings  and  her  smiles, 
The  dotard  dreams  she  loves;  —  thus  acts  her  part. 
And.  robbed  the  joys  of  sin,  still  sins  in  heart. 

Hilt  lir-re  a  youthful  pair.     What  think  you  now? 
I'll'-  liir-nds  agreed;  say,  shall  ihey  take  the  vow? 


68  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Connections  quite  respectable  all  round^ 
And  ample  property,  and  titles  sound. 

Most  certainly  an  eligible  match, 
Estates  so  fit,  like  patch  well  set  to  patch. 

'Tis  strange  none  thought  of  it  before ! 

My  friend, 
How  fit  thek  minds  ?     And  do  then*  feelings  blend  ? 


'o"- 


Why,  as  to  these  I  have  not  yet  inquired. 
What  more  than  I  have  said  can  be  desired  ? 
They  '11  learn  to  like  each  other  by  and  by. 
'T  is  not  my  business  into  hearts  to  pry 
After  such  whims.     Besides,  what  them  contents, 
Contents  me  too.     Come,  let  us  sum  their  rents. 
Houses  in  town,  —  say  ten 

Nay,  join  their  hands. 
Boggle  at  hearts !     We  ne^er  should  join  their  lands  ! 
Though  rough  and  sharp  below,  what  then,  foi'sooth  ? 
Custom  and  art  will  make  the  surface  smooth 
To  the  world's  eye,  o'er  this  McAdam  way 
Of  wedded  life.     We  '11  have  no  more  delay, 
But  join  them  straight. —  The  pair  have  made  a  trade,  — 
Contract  in  lands  and  stocks  'twixt  man  and  maid  1 
Partners  for  life,  club  chances,  —  weal  or  woe ! 
Hang  out  the  sign  !    There,  read !  —  A.  B.  &  Co. ! 

And  do  unsightly  weeds  choke  up  the  gush 
Of  early  hearts  ?     Are  all  the  feelings  hush 


FACTITIors    LIFK.  69 

And  lifeless  now,  that  would  have  sent  tiieir  son  ml 
In  unison,  where  young  hearts  throb  and  bound  ? 
Tear  up  the  weeds  and  let  the  soul  have  play ; 
Open  its  sunless  fountains  to  the  day  ; 
Let  them  How  freely  out :  they  make  thy  wealth. 
Bathe  thy  whole  being  in  these  streams  of  health, 
And  feel  new  vigour  in  thy  frame  !  —  A  boy ! 
And  weigh  thy  pelf  with  love  I  —  against  a  joy 
That  lifts  the  mind  and  speaks  it  noble,  gives 
Beauty  ethereal,  in  which  it  lives 
A  life  celestial  here,  on  earth,  —  e'en  here  I 
What  canst  thou  give  for  this,  and  call  it  dear  ? 
O,  it  is  past  all  count  I     Pray,  throw  thee  by 
Thy  tables  ;  trust  the  heart ;  the  tables  lie. 
Let  not  thy  fresh  soul  wither  in  its  spring. 
Water  its  tender  shoots,  and  they  shall  bring 
Shelter  to  age.     Then  sit  and  think  how  blest 
Have  been  thy  days,  thank  God,  and  take  thy  rest. 
Sell  not  thy  heart  for  gold,  then,  nor  for  lands ; 
'Tis  richer  far  than  all  Pactolus'  sands; 
And  where  on  earth  would  run  the  stream  to  lave 
The  curse  away,  and  thy  starved  soul  to  save  ? 

But  all  arc  reasoners,  —  father,  mother,  child; 
And  every  jiassioii  's  numbered,  labelled,  filed, 
And  taken  down,  discussed,  and  read  upon. 

We  read,  last  night.  Mamma,  through  chapter  one. 
And  left  the  second  in  the  midst.     Shall  we 
do  through  with  that  ? 

Tlic  second  .'     Let  me  see!  — 
Tlje  second  treats  of  (irid. —  Read,  child  I 


70  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Fourth  head, 
Concerning  grief,  is  sorrow  for  the  dead. 

Know,  happiness  is  duty.     Then,  be  wise  ; 
You  're  not  to  grieve  though  one  you  care  for  dies. 
Have  many  friends,  and  then  you  '11  scarcely  know 
When  one  departs,  and  save  a  world  of  woe. 
Nor  do  we  now  retke  to  mourn ;  we  live 
Only  in  taking  pleasure,  or  to  give. 

Is  sorrow  sin.  Mamma? 

It  is  a  waste. 
Sin,  child !     How  vulgar  I     Mind  me  ;  say,  bad  taste. 

But  what  is  pleasure  ?     Men  have  said  of  old, 
'T  is  found  in  neither  luxury,  nor  gold, 
Nor  fashion,  nor  the  throng  ;  but  only  true 
Where  minds  are  calm,  and  friends  are  dear  and  few ; 
That  life's  swift  whirl  wears  out  our  finer  sense, 
Sucks  down  the  good,  and  gives  out  nothing  thence 
But  a  tossed  wreck,  which,  once  the  comely  frame 
Of  some  true  joy,  saves  nothing  but  the  name. 
And  drifts,  a  shattered  thing,  upon  the  shore, 
Where  lie  the  unsightly  wrecks  of  thousands  more. 

To  flee  from  sorrow,  and  alone  to  keep 
The  eye  on  happiness,  leaves  nothing  deep 
E'en  in  our  joys.     To  put  aside  in  haste 
The  cup  of  grief,  makes  vapid  to  the  taste 
The  cup  of  pleasure.     Think  not,  then,  to  spare 
Thyself  all  sorrow,  yet  in  joy  to  share. 


FACTITIOrS    LIFF.  71 

Take  up  thy  many-stringed  harp,  and  tlirum 
On  that  one  chord,  and  with  a  single  thumb. 
Now  Thrill  the  fibres  of  thy  soul  ?  or  flow 
In  sounds  of  varying  measure,  swift  or  slow, 
The  full  rich  harmonies  ?     Nay,  listen  on  ! 
Thy  soul  has  myriad  strings  where  this  has  one ! 
Wearied  so  soon  ?     Then  take  it  up  and  play 
On  all  its  strings,  but  let  its  notes  be  gay. 
Wearied  again  ?  and  glad  to  throw  it  by  ? 

Yes,  tired,  in  faith  ;  I  long  to  hear  it  sigh  ; 
I  'm  worn  with  very  glee.     O,  let  me  give 
One  note  to  touch  my  heart,  and  feel  it  live  I 

And  thus  the  soul  is  framed  ;  that  if,  alone, 
We  loose  one  chord,  the  harp  ^vill  fail  its  tone. 
The  mighty  harmonies  within,  around, 
Die  all  away,  or  send  a  jarring  sound. 

Give  over,  then,  and  wisely  use  thy  skill 
To  tune  each  passion  rightly,  not  to  kill. 
To  joy  thee  in  the  living,  mourn  the  dead ; 
And  know  thou  hast  a  heart,  as  well  as  head, — 
A  heart  that  needs,  at  times,  the  softening  powers 
Of  grief,  romantic  love,  and  lonely  hours, 
A.nd  meditative  twilight,  and  the  balm 
Of  falling  dews,  and  evening  stars,  and  calm. 

For,  ever  in  the  world,  there  forms  a  crust 
Abont  thy  soul,  and  all  within  's  adust. 
With  sensr*  beciondt-tj,  and  |)i'rvert('d  taste, 
You  toil  abroad,  and  leave  the  lieart  a  waste; 


72  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Dead  while  alive,  and  listless  in  the  stir, 

See  all  awry,  deem  manner  character ; 

Not  sentient  of  the  right,  nor  loathing  wrong. 

You  smile,  and  that  call  rude,  which  God  calls  strong ; 

No  honest  indignation  in  your  breast, 

Nor  ardent  love,  but  all  things  well  expressed  ; 

Your  manner,  like  your  dress,  a  thing  put  on  : 

The  seen,  not  that  beneath,  your  care  alone. 

The  dress  has  made  the  form  by  nature  given 
Unlike  aught  ever  seen  in  earth  or  heaven. 
Where,  girl,  thy  flowing  motion,  easy  sweep. 
Like  waves  that  swing,  nor  break  the  glassy  deep  ?  — 
All  hard,  and  angular,  and  cased  in  steel ! 
And  is  it  human  ?     Can  it  breathe  and  feel  ? 
The  bosom  beautiful  of  mould,  —  alas  ! 
Where,  now,  thy  pillow,  youth  ?  (but  let  it  pass,) 
And  shapes  in  freedom  lovely  ?     I  will  bear 
Distorted  forms,  leave  minds  but  free  and  fair. 
All,  all  alike  conventional ;  the  mind 
Is  tortured  like  the  body,  cramped,  confined  ; 
A  thing  made  up  by  rules  of  art,  for  life  ; 
Most  perfect  when  with  nature  most  at  strife ; 
Till  the  strife  ceases,  and  the  thing  of  art. 
Forgetting  nature,  no  more  plays  a  part ; 
Sees  truth  in  the  factitious ;  —  pleasure's  slave,  — 
Its  drudge,  not  lord ;  in  trifles  only  grave. 

And  with  the  high  brought  low,  the  little  raised, 
Nature  forgotten,  the  factitious  praised, 
The  world  a  gaud,  life's  stream  a  shallow  brawl, 
What,  worldling,  holds  up  virtue  from  a  fall  ? 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  73 

Virtue  ?     Nay,  mock  it  not.     There  sits  its  Form  : 
Thy  hand  upon  its  heart  I     Does  't  beat  ?     Is  't  warm  ? 

No  pulse  I  unci  cold  as  death  ! 

Then  paint  its  face, 
And  dress  it  up,  and  give  the  thing  a  grace, 
For  sake  of  decency.     Why,  just  look  there! 
How  like  it  is  I     And  what  a  modish  air ! 
How  very  proper !     Sure,  it  can't  but  pass. 
And  serve  in  time  to  come  for  fashion's  glass. 

With  etiquette  for  virtue,  heart  subdued, 
The  right  betraying,  lest  you  should  be  rude, 
Excusing  wrong,  lest  you  be  thought  precise, 
Li  morals  easy,  and  in  manners  nice  ; 
To  keep  in  with  the  world  your  only  end. 
And  with  the  world  to  censure  or  defend, 
To  bend  to  it  eacli  passion,  thought,  deske, 
With  it  genteelly  cold,  or  all  on  tire. 
What  have  you  left  to  call  your  own,  I  i)ruy  ? 
You  ask.  What  says  the  world  ?  and  that  obey ; 
Where  singularity  alone  is  sin, 
Live  uncondemned,  and  prostrate  all  within. 
You  educate  the  manners,  not  the  heart ; 
And  morals  make  good-breeding  and  an  art. 
Though  coarse  within,  yet  polished  high  without. 
And  held  by  all  respectable,  no  doubt, 
You  think,  concealed  beneath  these  flimsy  lies, 
'J'o  kci-p  tlin»ni:Ii  life  th«^  set  proprieties. 

All,  lot)!,  ji't  Init  a  passion  rise  in  war. 
Your  mighty  doors  of  (Jaza,  po.sts  and  bar, 

VOL.  I.  7 


74 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 


'T  will  wrench  away.     The  Dalilah  of  old  — 
Your  harlot  virtue  —  thought  with  withes  to  hold 
Her  strong  one  captive ;  the  Philistines  came  ; 
He  snapped  the  bands  as  tow,  and  freed  his  frame, 
And  forth  he  walked.     And  think  you,  then,  to  bind 
With  cords  like  these  the  Samsons  of  the  mind. 
When  tempters  from  abroad  beset  them  ?     Nay ! 
They  '11  out,  and  tread  like  common  dust  your  sway. 

You  strive  in  vain  against  the  eternal  plan. 
Set  free  the  sympathies,  and  be  a  man  ; 
And  let  the  tear  bedew  thine  honest  eye, 
When  good  ones  suffer,  and  when  loved  ones  die ; 
Deem  not  thy  fellow  as  a  creature  made 
To  serve  thy  turn  in  pleasure  or  in  trade, 
And  then  thrown  by.     It  breaks  thy  moral  power 
To  wrap  the  eternal  up  in  one  short  hour, 
And  ask  what  best  will  serve  to  help  you  on. 
Or  furnish  comforts  till  your  life  is  done. 

And  is  it  wise  or  safe  to  set  at  naught 
The  finer  feelings  in  our  nature  wrought. 
That  throw  a  lovelier  hue  on  innocence, 
And  give  to  things  of  earth  a  life  intense. 
Drawing  a  charmed  circle  round  our  home, 
That  nothing  gross  or  sensual  there  may  come  ? 
Yet,  what  makes  virtue  beauty  you  would  bend 
To  worldly  purposes,  —  a  prudent  end  ! 

From  virtue  take  this  beautiful  regard, 
And  leave  her  homely  prudence,  duty  hard ; 
Let  passions  unrefined,  fed  appetites, 
Awake,  and  call  aloud  for  gross  delights ; 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  75 

Think  you  the  paltry  barriers  you  have  bviilt 

Will  stand  the  tug,  and  keep  out  shame  and  guilt  ? 

Then  leave  your  cold  forecasting?,  sharp,  close  strife 
For  vantage  ;  quit  tiie  whirl  you  call  your  life, 
And  see  how  God  has  ^\Tought.     This  earth  was  made 
For  use  of  man,  its  lord,  you  hear  it  said. 
Yes,  it  is  full  of  uses  ;  you  may  see 
How  plainly  made  for  use  is  yonder  tree, 
To  bear  thee  o'er  the  seas,  or  house  thee  dry. 
When  rains  beat  hard,  and  winds  are  bleak  and  high. 

No,  naught  of  this  I    But  leaves,  like  fluttering  wings, 
Flash  light ;  the  gentle  wind  among  them  sings, 
Then  stops,  and  they  too  stop  ;  and  then  the  strain 
Begins  anew ;  and  then  they  dance  again. 
I  see  the  tinted  trunk  of  brown  and  gray, 
And  rich,  warm  fungus,  brighter  for  decay. 
Whence  rays  of  light,  as  from  a  fountain,  flow; 
I  hear  the  mother  robin  talking  low 
111  notes  afll'ctionate  ;  the  wide-mouthed  brood 
Chattering  and  eager  for  their  far-sought  food. 
The  air  is  spread  with  beauty  ;  and  the  sky 
Is  musical  with  sounds  that  rise,  and  die 
Till  scarce  the  ear  can  catch  them ;  then  they  swell; 
Then  send  from  far  a  low,  sweet,  sad  farewell. 
My  mind  is  filled  with  beauty,  and  my  heart  — 
With  joy  ?     Not  joy,  —  with  what  I  would  not  part. 
It  is  not  sorrow,  yet  almost  subdues 
My  soul  to  tears  ;  it  saddms  whilf  it  woos. 
My  spirit  brcatjics  of  love;   I  could  not  hate. 
( ),  1  <<Mild  match  nic  with  tlif  lowliest  state 


76  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

And  be  content,  so  I  might  ever  know 

This  —  what  ?     I  cannot  tell,  —  not  joy  or  woe ! 

Come,  look  upon  this  stream.     Now  stoop  and  sip  ; 
And  let  it  gurgle  round  your  parching  lip. 
It  runs  to  slake  the  thu'st  of  man  and  beast ; 
The  simple  beverage  to  great  nature's  feast. 

My  thirst  is  quenched ;  but  still  my  spirit  drinks, 
And  my  heart  lingers,  and  my  mind,  —  it  thinks 
Thoughts  peaceful,  thoughts  upon  the  flow  of  time, 
And  tells  the  minutes  by  this  slender  chime, 
Music  w^ith  which  the  waters  gladly  pay 
Blossoms  and  shrubs  that  make  their  surface  gay. 

Thou  little  rill,  why  wilt  thou  run  so  fast 
To  mingle  with  rough  ocean  and  his  blast  ? 
Thou  thoughtless  innocent,  a  world  of  strife 
Is  there  I     Then  stay ;  nor  quit  thy  peaceful  life, 
And  all  thy  shining  pebbles,  and  the  song 
Thou  sing'st  throughout  the  day,  and  all  night  long, 
Up  to  the  sun,  the  stars,  the  moon  when  she 
Kisses  thy  face,  half  sadness  and  half  glee. 

Thus  pity  fills  my  heart,  and  thus  I  dream, 
When  standing  caring  for  the  unconscious  stream. 

Now  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade. 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun. 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide. 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFK.  7 

Ho  I  how  the  giant  heaves  hims^elf,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains  ; 
Foams  in  liis  WTath ;  and  at  his  prison  doors, 
Hark  I  hear  liini  I  how  he  beats  and  tugs  and  roars, 
As  if  he  would  break  Ibrtii  again,  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep  I 

Type  of  the  Infinite  I  I  look  away- 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  wiiere  they  break ; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  't  is  pain 
To  think;  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Tliou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell ;  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 
Far  back  beyond  all  date.     And,  O,  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me !     For  countless  years  thou  'st  rolled. 
Before  an  ear  could  hear  thee,  thou  didst  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn, 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath. 
At  last  thou  didst  it  well  I     The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swept'st  to  death  the  breathing  land ; 
And  then  once  more  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lonf  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

And  tliough  the  land  is  Ihronged  again,  O  Sea! 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  liird's  |)laining  note,  the  wild,  siiarp  cnll. 
Share  thine  own  s|)irit :  it  is  sadness  all! 
How  (lark  and  stern  upon  tiiv  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  Clilll  —  lie  witli  ihe  iron  crown. 


78  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

And  see !  those  sable  Pines  along  the  steep 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  Deep! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low-beating  surge. 

These  are  earth's  uses.     God  has  framed  the  whole, 
Not  mainly  for  the  body,  but  the  soul. 
That  it  might  dawn  on  beauty,  and  might  grow 
Noble  in  thought  from  nature's  noble  show, 
Might  gather  from  the  flowers  an  humble  mind. 
And  on  earth's  ever-varying  surface  find 
Something  to  win  to  kind  and  freshening  change, 
And  give  the  powers  a  wide  and  healthful  range ; 
To  furnish  man  sweet  company  where'er 
He  travels  on,  —  a  something  to  call  dear, 
And  more  his  own,  because  it  makes  a  part 
With  that  fair  world  that  dwells  within  the  heart. 

Earth  yields  to  healthful  labour  meat  and  drink. 
That  man  may  live,  —  for  what?     To  feel  and  think; 
And  not  to  eat  and  drink,  and,  like  the  beast, 
Sleep,  and  then  wake  and  get  him  to  his  feast. 
Over  these  grosser  uses  nature  throws 
Beauties  so  delicate,  the  man  foregoes 
Awhile  his  low  intents ;  to  soft  delights 
Yields  up  himself,  and,  lost  in  sounds  and  sights, 
Forgets  that  earth  was  made  for  aught  beside 
His  doting;  and  he  woos  it  as  his  bride. 
Beautiful  bride!  thou  chaste  one,  innocent! 
To  win  and  make  man  like  thee,  thou  wast  lent. 
Call  with  thy  many  pleasant  voices,  then ; 
The  wanderer  will  turn  to  thee  again. 


KACTITIOLS    LIFE.  79 

Yes,  now  he  turns  I     And  see!  the  breakini^  day  I 
And  through  its  dawn,  the  wanderer  on  his  way ! 

Thou  who  art  Life  and  Light,  I  see  Thee  spread 
Thy  glories  through  these  regions  of  the  dead ; 
I  hear  Thee  call  the  sleeper  :  —  Up !  behold 
The  earth  unveiled  to  thee,  the  heavens  unrolled ! 
On  thy  transformed  soul  celestial  light 
Bursts  ;  and  the  earth,  transfigured,  on  thy  sight 
Breaks,  a  new  sphere  I     Ay,  stand  in  glad  amaze, 
While  all  its  figures,  opening  on  thy  gaze, 
Unfold  ]iew  meanings.     Thou  shalt  understand 
Its  mystic  hierograph,  thy  God's  own  hand. 

Yes  I  man  shall  read  aright  when  he  shall  part 
With  hviman  schemes,  and  in  the  new-born  heart 
Feel  coursing  new-born  life ;  when  from  above 
Shall  flow,  throughout  his  soul,  joy,  light,  and  love; 
And  he  shall  follow  up  these  streams,  and  find 
The  One  the  source  of  nature,  grace,  and  mind. 
There,  lie  in  Ciod  and  (lod  in  him,  his  soul 
Shall  look  abroad  and  feel  the  world  a  whole; 
"  h'rom  nature  up  to  nature's  God,"  no  more 
Grope  out  his  way  through  parts,  nor  place  before 
The  Former  the  thing  formed:   Man  yet  shall  learn 
The  outAvard  by  the  inward  to  discern, — 
The  inward  by  the  Spirit. 

Here  begin 
Thy  searcii,  Pliih)sopher,  and  thou  slialt  win 
Thy  way  deep  down  into  the  somI.     'J'he  light 
Shed  in  by  (iod  shall  open  lo  lliv  sigjit 


80  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Vast  powers  of  being  ;  regions  long  untrod 

Shall  stretch  before  thee  filled  with  life  and  God  ; 

And  faculties  come  forth,  and  put  to  shame 

Thy  vain  and  curious  reasonings.     Whence  they  came 

Thou  shalt  not  ask  ;  for  they  shall  breathe  an  air 

From  upper  worlds  around,  that  shall  declare 

Them  sons  of  God,  immortal  ones ;  and  thou, 

Self-awed,  in  their  mysterious  presence  bow ; 

And  while  thou  listenest,  with  thy  inward  ear 

The  ocean  of  eternity  shalt  hear 

Along  its  coming  waves  ;  and  thou  shalt  see 

Its  spiritual  waters,  as  they  roll  through  thee ; 

Nor  toil  in  hard  abstractions  of  the  brain, 

Some  guess  of  immortality  to  gain  ; 

For  far-sought  truths  within  thy  soul  shall  rise, 

Informing  visions  to  thine  inward  eyes. 

Believe  thyself  immortal  ?     Thou  ^n\i  know, 
WWifeel  thyself  immortal,  when  shall  flow 
Life  from  the  Eternal,  and  shall  end  the  strife  • 
To  part  philosophy  and  heavenly  life. 
The  soul  to  its  prime  union  then  restored. 
The  reason  humbled  and  its  God  adored, 
Inward  beholdings,  powers  intuitive. 
Shall  wake  that  soul,  and  thought  in  feeling  live, 
And  truth  and  love  be  one,  and  truth  and  love. 
Felt  like  its  life-blood,  through  the  soul  shall  move. 

But  as  the  abstract  takes  visual  form,  and  thought 
Becomes  an  inward  sense  ;  so  man  is  brfmsht 
In  outward  forms  material  to  own 
A  character  with  mind  in  unison. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  81 

A  spirit  that  with  his  may  kindly  blend, 

And  sprung  with  liim  from  One,  in  One  to  end. 

Set  in  liis  true  relation,  he  shall  see 

Self  and  surrounding  things  from  Deity 

Proceeding  and  snpi)lied ;  that  earth  but  shows 

What,  ere  in  outward  forms  they  first  arose, 

Lived  spiritual,  fair  forms  in  God's  own  mind, 

And  now  revealed  to  him,  no  longer  blind, 

Open  relations  to  the  world  within. 

And  feeling,  truth,  and  life  in  man  begin. 

In  sympathy  with  God,  his  sympathies 

Spread  through  the  earth  and  run  into  the  skies. 

Full,  yet  receiving  ;  giving  out,  yet  full ; 

Thoughtful  in  action ;  quiet,  yet  not  dull, 

He  stands  'tAveen  God  and  earth  :     A  genial  light 

Dawns  in  his  soul ;  and  while  he  casts  his  sight 

Abroad,  behold  the  sun  !     As  on  its  track 

It  mounts  high  up  the  heavens,  its  fires  give  back 

Only  the  eflluence  of  that  inward  fire, 

The  reflex  of  the  soul,  and  God  its  sire. 

Where  'er  the  soul  looks  forth,  't  is  to  behold 

Itself  in  secondary  forms  unfold. 

Mysterious  Archetype !  see,  wide  unfurled 

Before  tiiine  eye,  thy  own,  thy  inner  world! 

Now  all  is  thine  ;  nor  need'st  thou  longer  fear 
To  take  thy  share  in  all.     The  far,  the  near 
To  thee,  are  (iod's,  —  so,  thine  ;  and  all  things  live 
To  higher  ends  than  earth;  and  thou  dost  give 
That  life  which  God  gives  thee;  and  to  impart 
Is  to  receive;  and  o'er  thy  new-born   Ik  ;irt 
The  earth  and  lic;ivcn-  ponronl  a  living  Hood; 
And  thou,  as  God  at  first,  seest  all  is  good. 


82  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Now,  Love  his  life,  and  Truth  his  light,  alone, 
His  spirit  even,  head  and  heart  at  one, 
A  rule  within  that  will  no  more  deceive, 
Man  sees  to  love,  and  loves  but  to  beUeve ; 
With  mind  well  balanced,  sees  and  loathes  deceit, 
And,  loving  truth,  detects  its  counterfeit ; 
With  all-pervading  truth  his  only  guide. 
Hath  naught  that  he  would  feign,  and  naught  to  hide ; 
No  selfish  passion,  and  his  vision  just. 
And  claiming  trust  himself,  he  dares  to  trust ; 
And  kind  as  trustful,  ne'er  to  merit  blind. 
But  liking  widely,  never  fails  to  find. 
Through  all  then-  varied  forms,  the  good  and  true  ; 
Nor  seeks  a  substitute  for  narrowed  view 
In  fond  excess ;  nor  meanly  learns  to  rate 
His  love  of  some,  as  he  may  others  hate ; 
Feeds  not  that  love  with  venom ;  nor  would  raise 
On  one  man's  ruin  piles  to  others'  praise ;  — 
Through  natiure,  through  the  works  of  art,  he  feels 
'T  is  ever  changing  beauty  finely  steals. 
Which,  varying,  still  is  one  ;  and  thus  he  draws 
From  one,  delight  in  all,  tlirough  genial  laws ; 
Feels  that  in  love's  expanse  love's  safety  lies, 
Nor  what  God  proffers  to  himself  denies ; 
That  every  attribute,  when  duly  used. 
Is  wisdom,  not  our  being's  gifts  refused. 
And  losing  self  in  others,  nobler  end 
Than  self  denied  ;  to  let  our  being  blend 
With  general  being,  wakes  intenser  life ; 
And  others'  good  our  aim,  ends  inward  strife ; 
That  truth  binds  all  things  by  a  common  tie ; 
And  Love  is  universal  harmony  ; 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  83 

And  man,  to  Truth  and  Love  once  more  restored, 
Shall  hold  with  God  and  nature  sweet  accord. 

O  World,  that  thou  wert  wise !     Hast  thou  not  toiled 
For  seeming  good  enough?  —  enough  been  foiled? 
How  long  must  speak  the  void  and  aching  heart  ? 
I  'm  weary  of  my  task,  this  player's  part  — 
Of  smiles  I  cannot  feel,  feigned  courtesy. 
With  feigning  paid  again,  —  my  life  a  lie, — 
I  've  chased  the  false  so  long !  and  yet  I  know 
The  false  hath  naught  for  me  but  secret  woe ; 
Yet  knowing,  still  pursue  with  blinded  haste, 
Through  systems,  morals,  fashions,  manners,  taste  ; 
1  ,ve  bartered  love  for  wealth,  distinction  sought. 
And  vain  and  loveless  cares  and  envy  bought ; 
Have  climbed  ambition's  heights  to  feel  alone, 
Looked  down,  and  seen  how  poor  a  world  is  won ; 
Have  lost  the  simple  way  of  right,  and  tried 
Expedients  curious,  then  for  truth  have  sighed ; 
And,  weak  from  energies  on  nothings  spent. 
Have  sought,  and  then  put  by,  what  nature  lent 
For  kind  repair,  —  e'en  like  a  pettish  child,  — 
Sick  of  pretence,  yet  willingly  beguiled. 
Simplicity,  and  all  the  fair  array 
Of  outward  forms,  that,  varying,  still  obey 
One  law  of  truth,  seemed  tamely  eflbrtless ; 
I  've  craved  conceit,  sharp  contrast,  and  excess ; 
Have  cast  my  noble  nature  down,  and  all 
The  outward  world  has  felt  and  shared  the  fall. 
Still  dimly  conscious  of  my  low  estate, 
Conscious  how  soon  the  world  and  senses  sate, 
Groveller  on  earth,  yet  wanting  will  to  rise, 
Tired  of  the  world,  unfitted  for  the  skies, 


84  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

As  to  the  abject,  helpless  slave,  to  me 
Would  come,  with  dh-e  import,  the  word.  Be  free ! 
Poor,  self-willed  slave,  a  bondage  hard  is  thine ! 
A  bondage  none  can  break  but  Power  divine. 

Spirit  of  Love,  thou  Power  Divine,  come  down ; 
And  where  thou  wallv'dst  a  sufferer,  wear  thy  crown ; 
Bid  the  vexed  sea  be  still,  the  tumult  cease ; 
Prophet,  fulfil  thy  word,  —  reign  Prince  of  Peace  ! 
O,  give  that  peace  the  world  knows  not,  and  throw, 
Light  of  the  world  !  thy  light  on  all  below ; 
Shine  through  the  wildered  mind,  that  man  may  see, 
Himself  and  earth  restored,  God,  all,  in  Thee  I 


THOUGHTS   ON   THE   SOUL. 


And  when  thou  think'st  of  her  eternity, 
Think  not  tliat  death  against  her  nature  is ; 
Think  it  her  birth. 

Davies. 

But  it  exceeds  man's  thoughts  to  think  how  high 
God  hath  raised  man. 

Ibid. 


It  is  the  Soul's  prerogative,  its  fate, 
To  shape  the  outw^ard  to  its  own  estate. 
If  right  itself,  then  all  around  is  well ; 
If  wrong,  it  makes  of  all  without  a  hell. 
So  multiplies  the  Soul  its  joy  or  pain, 
Gives  out  itself,  itself  takes  back  again. 
Tran.sformed  by  thee,  the  world  hath  but  one  face. 
Look  there,  my  Soul,  and  thine  own  features  trace  ! 
And  all  through  time,  and  down  eternity. 
Where'er  thou  goest,  that  face  shall  turn  on  thee. 


Wk  look  upon  the  outward  state,  and  then 
Say  wlio  is  hajipiest,  saddest  who,  of  m(Mi ; 
W(!  look  upon  llie  face,  and  thirilc  to  know 
Tile  irifasure  of  the  bosom's  joy  or  woe. 

vol..  r.  8 


86  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

A  healthy  man  is  that,  and  full  his  hoard, 
His  farm  well  stocked,  and  well  supplied  his  board, 
His  helpmate  comely,  and  a  thrifty  dame 
Of  cheerful  temper,  morn,  noon,  eve,  the  same. 
How  pale  looks  yonder  man !  his  wife  a  scold, 
His  children  sickly,  starved  with  want  and  coid. 
And  there  goes  one,  a  freeman  aU  his  life, 
"Who  ne'er  had  plagues  of  home,  or  child,  or  wife. 
Another  lives  in  that  large,  silent  hall. 
Bereft  of  friends,  of  wife,  and  child,  and  all. 

Now,  of  the  four,  who  's  happiest,  saddest  ?     Say  I 
I  thought  thou  knewest.     Well,  then,  why  delay  ? 
O,  Hamlet-like,  thou  wouldst  peruse  the  face. 
And  canst  thou  now  the  bosom's  secrets  trace  ? 
The  face  is  called  the  index  of  the  mind ; 
Yet  dost  not  read  it,  wise  one  ?    Art  thou  blind  ? 
It  is  the  Soul  made  visible.     Behold 
The  shapes  it  takes.     Speak !    What  may  his  unfold  ? 

Why,  joy,  be  sure ;  you  saw  how  sweet  it  smiled. 

Thou  read  a  face  !     Go,  read  thy  horn-book,  child ! 

By  summing  that  man's  cattle  by  the  head, 
His  friends  alive,  or  wife  and  children  dead. 
Dost  think  to  learn  his  spirit's  breadth  and  length  ? 
To  find  his  joys'  and  sorrows'  depth  and  strength  ? 
Come!  of  these  joys  and  sufferings  make  thy  cast. 
Now  tell  me,  pray,  how  foot  they  up  at  last  ? 
Of  outward  things  thou  canst  not  find  the  amount ; 
Think'st  thou  the  Soul's  emotions,  then,  to  count  ? 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL.  87 

To  range  upon  the  face  the  thoughts  that  fly 
Swifter  than  liglit  ?  —  That  rainbow,  in  the  sky, 
Severs  each  hue  ;  but  what  prismatic  glass 
Hast  thou  to  mark  the  feehngs  as  they  pass  ? 
Or  what  wherewith  to  sound  or  tell  the  (low 
Of  that  man's  deep,  and  dark,  and  silent  woe  ? 
To  name  their  kind,  or  reckon  their  degree. 
When  joys  play  through  liim  like  a  sparkling  sea  ? 

Ocean  and  land,  the  living  clouds  that  run 
Above  or  stand  before  the  setting  sun, 
Taking  and  giving  glory  in  his  light, 
Live  but  in  change  too  subtHe  for  thy  sight. 
The  lot  of  man,  —  see  that  more  varied  still 
By  ceaseless  acts  of  sense,  and  mind,  and  will. 
Yet  couldst  thou  count  up  all  material  things. 
All  outward  difierence  each  condition  brings. 
Then  wouldst  thou  say,  perhaps,  Lo,  here  the  wiiole  I 
The  whole  ?     One  thing  thou  hast  forgot,  —  the  Soul  I 

Life  in  itself,  it  life  to  all  things  gives ; 
For  whatsoe'er  it  looks  on,  that  thing  lives,  — 
Becomes  an  acting  being,  ill  or  good. 
And,  grateful  to  its  giver,  tenders  food 
For  the  Soul's  health  ;  or,  suHering  change  unblest, 
Fours  poison  down  to  rankle  in  the  breast : 
As  acts  the  man,  e'en  so  it  plays  its  part. 
And  answers,  thought  to  Ihought,  and  heart  to  heart. 

Yes,  man  rc(hij)li(:ii('s  himself,      ^'ou  see 
111  yonder  lake;  n^llected  rock  and  tree. 
Each  leaf  at  rest,  or  (juivering  in  the  air. 
Now  rests,  now  stirs  as  if  a  breeze  were  there 


88 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 


Sweeping  the  crystal  depths.     How  perfect  all ! 
And  see  those  slender  top-boughs  rise  and  fall, 
The  double  strips  of  silvery  sand  unite 
Above,  below,  each  grain  distinct  and  bright. 
Yon  bird,  that  seeks  her  food  upon  that  bough. 
Pecks  not  alone  ;  for  look !  the  bird  below 
Is  busy  after  food,  and  happy,  too. 
They  're  gone !     Both  pleased  away  together  flew. 

Behold  we  thus  sent  up,  rock,  sand,  and  wood, 
Life,  joy,  and  motion  from  the  sleepy  flood? 
The  world,  O  man,  is  like  that  flood  to  thee : 
Turn  where  thou  wilt,  thyself  in  all  things  see 
Reflected  back.     As  drives  the  blinding  sand 
Round  Egypt's  piles,  where'er  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
If  that  thy  heart  be  barren,  there  will  sweep 
The  drifting  waste,  like  waves  along  the  deep, 
FiU  up  the  vale,  and  choke  the  laughing  streams 
That  ran  through  grass  and  brake,  with  dancing  beams. 
Sear  the  fresh  woods,  and  from  thy  heavy  eye 
Veil  the  wide-shitting  glories  of  the  sky. 

The  rill  is  tuneless  to  his  ear  who  feels 
No  harmony  within ;  the  south  wind  steals 
As  silent  as  unseen  among  the  leaves  : 
Who  has  no  inward  beauty,  none  perceives, 
Though  all  around  is  beautiful.     Nay,  more,  — 
In  nature's  calmest  hour  he  hears  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  flinging  waves ;  puts  out  the  light, 
When  high  and  angry  passions  meet  in  fight ; 
And,  his  own  spirit  into  tumult  hurled. 
He  makes  a  tm-moil  of  a  quiet  world ; 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOIL.  89 

And  fiends  of  his  own  bosom  people  air 
With  kindred  fiends,  that  hunt  him  to  despair. 
Hates  he  his  fellow  ?     Self  he  makes  the  rate 
Of  fellow-man,  and  cries,  'T  is  hate  for  hate. 

Soul  I  I'earful  is  thy  power,  whieh  thus  transforms 
All  things  into  thy  likeness ;  heaves  in  storms 
Tiie  strong,  proud  sea,  or  lays  it  down  to  rest, 
Like  the  hushed  infant  on  its  mother's  breast ;  — 
Which  gives  each  outward  circumstance  its  hue, 
And  shapes  the  acts  and  thoughts  of  men  anew, 
Till  they,  in  turn,  or  love  or  hate  impart. 
As  love  or  hate  holds  rule  within  the  heart. 

Then  dread  thy  very  power  ;  for  works  it  wrong, 
It  gives  to  all  without  a  power  as  strong 
As  is  its  own,  —  a  power  it  can't  recall : 
Such  as  thy  strength,  e'en  so  will  be  thy  thrall. 
The  fiercer  are  thy  sti'uggles,  wrath,  and  throes, 
Thou  slave  of  sin,  the  mystic  chain  so  grows 
Closer  and  heavier  on  thee.     Thus,  thy  strength 
Makes  thee  the  weaker,  verier  slave,  at  length, 
Working,  at  thy  own  forge,  the  chain  to  bind, 
And  wear,  and  fret  thy  restless,  fevered  mind. 

B(;  warned  I      Thou  canst  not  break  nor  scape  tlie 
power 
III  kindness  given  in  thy  first  breathing  hour. 
Tlion  canst  not  slay  its  life  :   It  must  create  ; 
Vnd  good  or  ill,  there  ne'er  will  come  a  date 
To  its  tremendous  rmergies  :  —  The  trust, 
Thus  given,  ginml,  and  to  thyself  he  just, 
8* 


90  THOUGHTS    OiN    THE    SOUL. 

Nor  dream  with  life  to  shufHe  off  the  coil ; 
It  takes  fresh  life,  starts  fresh  for  further  toU, 
And  on  it  goes,  for  ever,  ever,  on, 
Changing,  all  down  its  course,  each  thing  to  one 
With  its  immortal  nature :    All  must  be, 
Like  thy  dread  self,  one  dread  eternity. 

Blinded  by  passion,  man  gives  up  his  breath, 
Uncalled  by  God.     We  look,  and  name  it  Death. 
Mad  wretch !  the  soul  hath  no  last  sleep ;  the  strife 
To  end  itself  but  wakes  intenser  life 
In  the  self-torturing  spirit.     Fool,  give  o'er ! 
Hast  thou  once  been,  yet  think' st  to  be  no  more  ? 
What!  life  destroy  itself?     O,  idlest  di-eam 
Shaped  in  that  emptiest  thing,  a  doubter's  scheme ! 
Think'st  in  a  Universal  Soul  will  merge 
Thy  soul,  as  rain-drops  mingle  with  the  surge  ? 
Or,  scarce  less  skeptic,  sin  will  have  an  end. 
And  thy  purged  sphit  with  the  holy  blend 
In  joys  as  holy?     Why  a  sinner  now? 
As  falls  the  tree,  so  lies  it.     So  shalt  thou. 
God's  Book,  rash  doubter,  holds  the  plain  record ; 
Dar'st  talk  of  hopes  and  doubts  agamst  that  Word  ? 
Or  palter  with  it  in  a  quibbling  sense  ? 
That  Book  shall  judge  thee  when  thou  passest  hence. 
Then,  —  w^ith  thy  spirit  from  the  body  freed,  — 
Then  shalt  thou  know,  see,  feel,  what 's  life  indeed ! 

Bursting  to  life,  thy  dominant  desire 
Shall  upward  flame,  like  a  fierce  forest  fne ; 
Then  like  a  sea  of  fire  heave,  roar,  and  dash,  — 
Roll  up  its  lowest  depths  in  waves,  and  flash 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL.  91 

A  wild  disaster  round,  like  its  own  woe ; 

Each  wave  cry,  '"  Woe  lor  ever  I "  in  its  How, 

And  then  pass  on;  —  from  far  adown  its  path 

Send  back  coraminirling  sounds  of  woe  and  wrath : 

The  indomitable  Will  shall  know  no  sway: 

God  calls; —  Man,  hear  Him  ;  ([uit  that  feai'ful  way  I 

Come,  listen  to  His  voice  who  died  to  save 
Lost  man,  and  raise  him  from  his  moral  gi-ave ; 
From  darkness  showed  a  path  of  light  to  heaven ; 
Cried,  Rise  and  walk ;  thy  sins  are  all  forgiven. 

Blest  are  the  pure  in  heart.     Wouldst  thou  be  blest? 
He  'll  cleanse  thy  spotted  soul.    Wouldst  thou  find  rest  ? 
Around  thy  toils  and  cares  He  '11  breathe  a  calm. 
And  to  thy  wounded  spirit  lay  a  balm ; 
From  fear  draw  love ;  and  teach  thee  where  to  seek 
Lost  strength  and  grandeur, — with  the  bowed  and  meek. 

Come  lowly ;  He  will  help  thee.     Lay  aside 
That  subtle,  first  of  evils,  —  iiuman  pride. 
Know  (lod,  and,  so,  thyself;  and  l)e  afraid 
To  call  aught  |)oor  or  low  that  He  has  made. 
Fear  naught  but  sin  ;  love  all  but  sin  ;  and  learn 
In  all  beside  't  is  wisdom  to  discern 
His  forming,  his  creating  power,  and  bind 
Earth,  self,  and  brother  to  tlif  I'^ternal  Mind. 

[jinked  with  the  Iinuiortal,  inniioiiality 
liegins  e'en  here.      For  wliat  is  time  to  tlu-e, 
To  whose  cleared  sight  the  night  is  turned  to  day, 
And  ihat  but  chan^in^  lilr,  mi>talle(l  tiecay  ? 


92  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

Is  it  not  glorious,  then,  from  thy  own  heart 
To  pour  a  stream  of  life  ?  to  make  a  part 
With  thy  eternal  spirit  things  that  rot,  — 
That,  looked  on  for  a  moment,  are  forgot, 
But  to  thy  opening  vision  pass  to  take 
New  forms  of  life,  and  in  new  beauties  wake  ? 

To  thee  the  falling  leaf  but  fades  to  bear 
Its  hues  and  odom's  to  a  fresher  air ; 
Some  passing  sound  floats  by  to  yonder  sphere, 
That  softly  answers  to  thy  listening  ear. 
In  one  eternal  round  they  go  and  come  ; 
And  where  they  travel,  there  hast  thou  a  home 
For  thy  far-reaching  thoughts.  —  O  Power  Divine ! 
Has  this  poor  worm  a  spirit  so  like  thine  ? 
Unwrap  its  folds,  and  clear  its  wings  to  go ! 
Would  I  could  quit  earth,  sin,  and  care,  and  woe ! 
Nay,  rather  let  me  use  the  world  aright : 
Thus  make  me  ready  for  my  upward  flight. 

Come,  Brother,  turn  with  me  from  pining  thought. 
And  all  the  inward  ills  that  sin  has  wrought ; 
Come,  send  abroad  a  love  for  all  who  live, 
And  feel  the  deep  content  in  turn  they  give. 
Kind  wishes  and  good  deeds,  —  they  make  not  poor ; 
They  'U  home  again,  full  laden,  to  thy  door. 
The  streams  of  love  flow  back  where  they  begin ; 
For  springs  of  outward  joys  lie  deep  within. 

E'en  let  them  flow,  and  make  the  places  glad 
Where  dwell  thy  fellow-meu.     Shouldst  thou  be  sad, 
And  earth  seem  bare,  and  hours,  once  happy,  press 
Upon  thy  thoughts,  and  make  thy  loneliness 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL.  1)3 

More  lonely  for  the  past,  thon  then  shalt  hear 
The  music  of  those  waters  running  near ; 
And  thy  faint  spirit  cirink  the  cooling  stream, 
And  thine  eye  gladden  with  the  playing  beam, 
That  now  upon  the  water  dances,  now. 
Leaps  uj)  and  dances  in  the  hanging  bough. 

Is  it  not  lovely  ?     Tell  me,  where  doth  dwell 
The  power  that  ^vTOught  so  beautiful  a  spell  ? 
[n  tliy  own  bosom,  Brother  ?     Then,  as  thine, 
Guard  with  a  reverent  fear  this  power  divine. 

And  if,  indeed,  't  is  not  the  outward  state, 
But  temper  of  the  Soul,  by  which  we  rate 
Sadness  or  joy,  e'en  let  thy  bosom  move 
With  noble  thoughts,  and  wake  thee  into  love ; 
And  let  each  feeling  in  thy  breast  be  given 
All  honest  aim,  which,  sanctified  by  Heaven, 
And  springing  into  act,  new  life  imparts. 
Till  beats  thy  frame  as  with  a  thousand  hearts. 

Sin  clouds  the  mind's  clear  vision  ;  man,  not  earth, 
Around  the  self-starved  Soul  has  sjiread  a  dearth. 
The  earth  is  full  of  lite:  ihc  living  Hand 
Touched  it  with  liir;  and  all  its  lonns  expand 
Witli  princij)les  of  being  made  to  suit 
Man's  varied  powers,  and  raise  him  from  the  brute. 
And  shall  the  earth  of  higher  ends  be  lull. — 
Earth  which  tlum  trcad'st,  —  and  lliy  i)oor  mind  be  dull  ? 
'J'liou  talk  of  life,  with  half  thy  soul  asleep! 
I'liou  "  living  dead  man,"  l<t  lliy  spirits  leap 
Torth  1()  the,  day;  and  Id  llic    fresh  air  blow 
Thro'  ihy  soul's  shut-up  mansion.     Wouldst  thou  know 


94  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

Something  of  what  is  life,  shake  off  this  death  ; 
Have  thy  soul  feel  the  universal  breath 
With  which  all  nature 's  quick,  and  learn  to  be 
Sharer  in  all  that  thou  dost  touch  or  see  ; 
Break  from  thy  body's  grasp,  thy  spmt's  trance  ; 
Give  thy  Soul  ak,  thy  faculties  expanse  ; 
Love,  joy,  e'en  sorrow,  —  yield  thyself  to  all ! 
They  make  thy  freedom,  gi'oveller,  not  thy  thrall. 
Knock  off  the  shacldes  which  thy  spu-it  bind 
To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large  the  mind ! 
Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's  great  whole  ; 
And  be,  like  man  at  first,  a  living  Soul  ! 


Though  nothing  once,  and  born  but  yesterday, 
Like  Him  who  knows  nor  ending  nor  decay, 
So  shalt  thou  live,  my  Soul,  immortal  one ! 
Strong  as  the  firm,  the  dread,  eternal  throne. 
Endless  as  God,  who  sits  for  aye  thereon. 

Infinite  Father !  shall  thy  creature  dare 
Look  forth,  and  say.  Eternity  I  share 
With  Him  who  made  me  ?     May  he  forward  send 
His  thoughts,  and  say,  Like  God,  I  know  no  end  ?  — 
Stretch  onward,  age  on  age,  till  mind  grows  dim. 
Yet,  conscious,  cry.  There  still  am  I  with  Him  ? 
Worm  of  the  dust !  thought  almost  blasphemy ! 
Dread  glory  !  —  I,  like  God,  shall  ever  be ! 

O  Goodness  searchless  !    Thou  who  once  didst  walk 
With  man  on  earth,  with  man  familiar  talk. 


TIIOLGIITS    0\    THE    SOUL.  95 

Bringing  Thyself  to  him,  to  lead  the  way 
From  darkness  up  to  glory  and  to  day, 
Uniting  with  our  form,  that  man,  when  blind 
To  all  but  sense,  the  high  intent  might  find 
Of  his  own  soul,  his  never-dying  mind,  — 
Teach  us,  in  this  thy  Sacrifice,  to  see 
Thy  love,  —  our  worth,  in  this  great  mystery. 

Poorly  of  his  own  nature  he  must  deem,  — 
His  very  immortality  a  dream,  — 
Whose  God  's  so  strange  He  may  not  condescend 
With  his  own  last  and  greatest  work  to  blend ; 
But  rather  his  lost  creatures  must  forsake, 
Than  deign  to  dwell  with  that  He  deigned  to  make. 
Though  veiled  in  flesh,  did  God  his  glory  hide  ? 
God  counts  not  glory  thus,  but  human  pride. 

Debased  by  sin,  and  used  to  things  of  sense, 
How  shall  man's  spirit  rise  and  travel  hence, 
Wliere  lie  the  Soul's  pure  regions  without  bounds, 
The  mind  at  large,  where  passion  ne'er  confounds 
Clear  thought,  and  thought  is  sight, — the  far  brings  nigh, 
Calls  up  the  deep,  and,  now,  calls  down  the  liigh. 

Cast  off  thy  slough,  and  send  thy  spirit  forth 
Up  to  t1ic  Infinite,  th(Mi  know  thy  worth. 
With  That,  be  infinite;  with  Love,  be  love; 
Angel,  'mid  angel  throngs  that  move  above, — 
Ay,  more  than  Angel;  nearer  the  great  Caksi:, 
Thnjugh  his  redeeming  jjower,  now  read  his  laws, — 
Nor  with  thy  earthly  mind,  that  half  detects 
Something  of  outward  thijigs  by  slow  efiects ; 


96  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

Viewing  creative  causes,  learn  to  know 

The  hidden  springs,  nor  guess,  as  here  below, 

Laws,  purposes,  relations,  sympathies. 

In  errours  vain  :    Clear  Truth  's  in  yonder  skies. 

Creature  all  grandeur,  son  of  truth  and  light, 
Up  from  the  dust !  the  last  great  day  is  bright,  — 
Bright  on  the  Holy  Mountain,  round  the  Throne, 
Bright  where  in  borrowed  light  the  far  stars  shone. 
Look  down  !  the  Depths  are  bright!  — and  hear  them  cry, 
"  Light !  light  I  "  —  Look  up  I  't  is  rushing  down  from 

high ! 
Regions  on  regions,  far  away  they  shine  : 
'T  is  light  ineffable,  't  is  light  divine ! 
"  Immortal  light,  and  life  for  evermore," 
Off  through  the  deeps  is  heard  from  shore  to  shore 
Of  rolling  worlds  !  —  Man,  wake  thee  from  the  sod  ; 
Awake  from  death  I  awake,  and  live  with  God ! 


THE   HUSBAND  AND   A\aFE'S   GRAVE. 


Husband  and  wife  I     No  converse  now  ye  hold, 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  day  ol"  love, 
On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  delays, 
Its  silent  meditations  and  glad  hopes. 
Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympathies  ; 
Nor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and  bliss 
Full,  certain,  and  possessed.     Domestic  cares 
Call  you  not  now  together.     Earnest  talk 
On  what  your  children  may  be  moves  you  not. 
Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence  ; 
Not  like  to  that  in  which  ye  rested  once 
Most  happy,  —  silence  eloquent,  when  heart 
With  iicart  held  speech,  and  your  mysterious  frames, 
Harmonious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat 
Touched  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

A  stillness  deep. 
Insensible,  unheeding,  folds  you  round  ; 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  sealed  you  in ; 
Away  from  all  the  living,  hen;  y<'  rest: 
In  all  tlic  nearness  (•('  tlic  narrow  tomb, 
Yet  f(*i'\  yo  not  eacii  ollicr's  presence  now: 
Drear!  O-Howsliip  I  —  fogctln-r.  vet  alone. 

vol..  I.  9 


98         THE  HUSBAND  AND  WIFe's  GRAVE. 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love  ? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling   spirits  ?       Are   thoughts   that  know  no 

bounds. 
But,  self-inspired,  rise  up"ward,  searching  out 
The  Eternal  Mind,  the  Father  of  all  thought,  — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb  ?  — 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  light  have  visited  and  lived  ?  — 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendour  of  that  throne, 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  the  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  revealed 
In  glory  ?  —  throne,  before  which  even  now 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed?  — 
Souls  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful,  unseen  Presence,  —  are  they  quenched  ? 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not,  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  ? 

And  do  our  loves  all  perish  with  our  frames  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty,  - 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair,  unconscious  flowers  ? 
Are    thoughts   and  passions  that  to  the  tongue  give 

speech. 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies,  — 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance,  — 


I 


THE    lIL'SiBAND    AND    WIFE's    GRAVE.  99 

Are  these  the  body's  accidents  ?  —  no  more?  — 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  tapers  Hanie  ? 

O,  listen,  man  I 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
'•  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  I  "     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  around  our  souls  ;  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  tiie  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality ; 
Thick-clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  tliis  solemn,  universal  song. 

O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits ;  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  I     'T  is  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
Is  floating  in  day's  setting  glories  ;  Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  : 
Nidit  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  tlu;  limitless  ex|)anse, 
As  one  great  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  licavi'iily  harmony. 

Why  is  it  th'.it  I  linger  round  this  tomb  ? 
What  holds  it?      Dnst  that  ciiiiilxTcd  those  I  mourn. 
Tlu'y  sh(K)k  it  oflT,  and  laid  aside  earth's  robes, 
Aiu\  ))ut  on  those  of  light.      They  're  gone  to  dwell 
In  love,  —  their  (Jod's  ;iii(l  ;tiiL;el>".      Mutual  love. 


100         THE  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE's  GRAVE. 

That  bound  them  here,  no  longer  needs  a  speech 
For  full  communion  ;  nor  sensations  strong, 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  sti'ive  in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind  in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that  rise  in  each, 
By  natures  new  impart  themselves,  though  silent. 
Each  quickening  sense,  each  throb  of  holy  love, 
Affections  sanctified,  and  the  full  glow 
Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden  one, 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and  live 
In  both  immortal  frames :  —  Sensation  all, 
And  thought,  pervading,  mingling  sense  and  thought ! 
Ye  paired,  yet  one  I  wrapt  in  a  consciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single,  —  this  is  love,  this  life  ! 

Why  call  we,  then,  the  square-built  monument, 
The  upright  column,  and  the  low-laid  slab, 
Tokens  of  death,  memorials  of  decay  ? 
Stand  in  this  solemn,  still  assembly,  man, 
And  learn  thy  proper  nature  ;  for  thou  seest. 
In  these  shaped  stones  and  lettered  tables,  figures 
Of  life.     Then  be  they  to  thy  soul  as  those 
Which  he  who  talked  on  Sinai's  mount  with  God 
Brought  to  the  old  Judeans,  —  types  are  these 
Of  thine  eternity. 

I  thank  Thee,  Father, 
That  at  this  simple  grave  on  which  the  dawn 
Is  breaking,  emblem  of  that  day  which  hath 
No  close.  Thou  kindly  unto  my  dark  mind 
Hast  sent  a  sacred  light,  and  that  away 
From  this  green  hiUock,  whither  I  had  come 
In  sorrow,  Thou  art  leading  me  in  joy. 


THE   DYING   RAVEN, 


Come  to  these  lonely  woods  to  die  alone  ? 
It  seems  not  many  days  since  thou  wast  heard, 
From  out  the  mists  of  spring,  with  clamorous  note, 
Calling  upon  thy  mates,  —  and  their  clear  answers. 
The  earth  was  brown  then,  and  the  infant  leaves 
Had  not  put  forth  to  warm  them  in  the  sun. 
Or  play  in  the  fresh  air  of  heaven.     Thy  voice, 
Shouting  in  triumph,  told  of  Avinter  gone, 
And,  prophesying  hfe  to  the  sealed  ground, 
Did  make  me  glad  with  thoughts  of  coming  beauties. 
And  now  they  're  all  around  me,  —  olfspring  bright 
Of  earth,  a  mother,  who,  with  constant  care, 
Doth  feed  and  clothe  them  all.     Now  o'er  her  fields, 
111  blessed  bands,  or  single,  they  are  gone  ; 
Or  by  her  brooks  they  stand,  and  sip  the  stream ; 
Or  peering  o'er  it,  —  vanity  well  feigned, — 
At  ([uaint  approval  seem  to  glow  and  nod 
At  their  reflectc^d  graces.     Morn  to  meet, 
'I'hey  in  fantastic  labours  pass  tiie  night, 
Catching  its  d(;ws,  and  rounding  silvi-ry  chops 
To  deck  their  bosoms.     'J'here,  on  high,  bald  trees, 
I'rojii  varnished  eell<  some  |)er|).  and  the  old  htjughs 


102  THE    DYING    RAVExX. 

Make  to  rejoice  and  dance  in  warmer  winds. 
Over  my  head  the  winds  and  they  make  music ; 
And  grateful,  in  return  for  what  they  take, 
Bright  hues  and  odours  to  the  air  they  give. 

Thus  mutual  love  brings  mutual  delight,  — 
Brings  beauty,  life ;  for  love  is  life,  —  hate,  death. 

Thou  Prophet  of  so  fair  a  revelation ! 
Thou  who  abod'st  with  us  the  winter  long. 
Enduring  cold  or  rain,  and  shaking  oft 
From  thy  dark  mantle  falling  sleet  or  snow,  — 
Thou,  who,  with  purpose  kind,  when  warmer  days 
Shone  on  the  earth,  'mid  thaw  and  steam  cam'st  forth 
From  rocky  nook,  or  wood,  thy  priestly  cell, 
To  speak  of  comfort  unto  lonely  man,  — 
Didst  say  to  him,  though  seemingly  alone 
'Mid  wastes  and  snows,  and  silent,  lifeless  trees, 
Or  the  more  silent  ground,  it  was  not  death. 
But  nature's  sleep  and  rest,  her  kind  repair ; 
That  thou,  albeit  unseen,  didst  bear  with  him 
The  winter's  night,  and,  patient  of  the  day. 
And  cheered  by  hope,  (instinct  divine  in  thee,) 
Waitedst  return  of  summer. 

More  thou  saidst. 
Thou  Priest  of  Nature,  Priest  of  God,  to  man ! 
Thou  spok'st  of  Faith,  (than  instinct  no  less  sure,) 
Of  spirits  near  him,  though  he  saw  them  not ; 
Thou  bad'st  him  ope  his  intellectual  eye. 
And  see  his  solitude  all  populous ; 
Thou  show^dst  him  Paradise  and  deathless  flowers ; 


Tin:     UVl.NO     RAVEN.  103 


And  didst  him  pray  to  listoii  to  the  How 
Ol  living  waters. 


'o 


Preacher  to  man's  spirit  I 
Embk^m  of  Hope  I   Companion  I   Comforter  I 
Thou  faitliful  one  I  is  this  thine  end  ?     'T  was  thou, 
Wlien  summer  birds  were  gone,  and  no  form  seen 
In  the  void  air.  wlio  cam'st,  living  and  sti\)ng, 
On  thy  broatl,  balanced  j)i'nnons,  through  the  winds. 
And  of  thy  K)ng  enduring,  this  flic  close? 
Thou  Concpicror  of  Storms,  thy  kingly  strength 
Thus  low  brought  down  ? 

The  year's  mild,  cheering  dawn 
Shone  out  on  thee,  a  momentary  light. 
The  gales  of  spring  upbore  thee  for  a  day, 
And  then  forsook  thee.     Thou  art  fallen  now ; 
And  liest  among  thy  hopes  aiul  promises  — 
Beautiful  flowers  and  freshly  springing  blades  — 
Gasj)ing  thy  lifi'  out.     Here  for  thee  the  grass 
'i'tiidcrly  makes  a  bed,  and  the  young  buds 
III  >ilfii(T  open  their  lair,  painted  iolds  ; 
'I'o  ease  thy  pain,  llir  one.  —  to  cliccr  1  lice,  these. 
But  thou  art  restless  ;  and  thy  once  keen  eye. 
Is  dull  and  sightless  now,      Xew-hlooming  boughs, 
Ncedh-ssly  kind,  have  sjiread  a  tent  for  thee. 
Thy  mate  is  calling  to  the  white,  piled  clouds. 
And  asks  for  thee.     They  give  no  answer  back. 
As  I  look  up  to  their  bright  angel  faces. 
Intelligent  and  (■aj)ablr  of  voice 
'i'hey  sconi  to  me.     Their  silencr  to  my  soil! 

Comes  oiiiiiKiii-.       The  .-aiiii-  III  llii'c.  iliiiHiird  bird, 

Silence  or  soimd  ■     l"'or  iin'c  liitri-  i-  no  sound, 


104  THE    DYING    RAVEN. 

No  silence.     Near  thee  stands  the  shadow,  Death. 

And  now  he  slowly  draws  his  sable  veil 

Over  thine  eyes ;  thy  senses  softly  lulls 

Into  unconscious  slumbers.     The  airy  call 

Thou  'It  hear  no  longer  ;  'neath  sun-lighted  clouds, 

With  beating  wing,  or  steady  poise  aslant. 

Wilt  sail  no  more.     Around  thy  trembling  claws 

Droop  thy  wings'  parting  feathers.     Spasms  of  death 

Are  on  thee. 

Laid  thus  low  by  age  ?     Or  is  't 
All-grudging  man  has  brought  thee  to  this  end  ? 
Perhaps  the  slender  hah',  so  subtly  wound 
Ai'ound  the  grain  God  gives  thee  for  thy  food, 
Has  proved  thy  snare,  and  makes  thine  inward  pain. 

I  needs  must  mourn  for  thee.     For  I,  who  have 
No  fields,  nor  gather  into  garners,  —  I 
Bear  thee  both  thanks  and  love,  not  fear  nor  hate. 

And  now,  farewell !     The  falling  leaves  ere  long 
Will  give  thee  decent  covering.     Till  then, 
Thine  own  black  plumage,  that  will  now  no  more 
Glance  to  the  sun,  nor  flash  upon  my  eyes. 
Like  armour  of  steeled  knight  of  Palestine, 
Must  be  thy  pall.     Nor  will  it  moult  so  soon 
As  sorrowing  thoughts  on  those  borne  from  him  fade 
In  living  man. 

Who  scoffs  these  sympathies, 
Makes  mock  of  the  divinity  within  ; 
Nor  feels  he  gently  breathing  through  his  soul 


THE  DYING    RAVEN.  LU5 

Tlie  universal  spirit.     Heai-  it  cry,  — 

How  does  tliy  pride  abase  thee,  man,  vain  man  I 

How  deaden  thee  to  universal  love, 

And  jov  of  kindred  with  all  luimblc  tllinfr^',  — 

CJod's  creatures  all  I 

And  surely  it  is  so. 
He  who  the  lily  clothes  in  simple  glory, 
He  who  doth  hear  the  ravens  cry  for  food. 
Hath  on  our  hearts,  with  hand  invisible, 
lii  signs  mysterious,  written  what  alone 
Our  hearts  may  read.  —  Death  bring  thee  rest,    poor 
Bird. 


FRAGMENT     OF     AN     EPISTLE. 


WRITTEN     WHILE     RECOVERING     FROM     SEVERE     ILLNESS. 


No  more,  my  friend, 
A  weary  ear  I  urge  you  lend 
My  tale  of  sickness,  aches  I  've  borne 
From  closing  day  to  breaking  morn,  — 
Long  wintry  nights  and  days  of  pain,  — 
Sharp  pain.     'T  is  past ;  and  I  would  fain 
My  languor  cheer  with  grateful  thought 
On  Him  who  to  this  frame  has  brought 
Soothing  and  rest ;  who  —  when  there  rose 
Within  my  bosom's  dull  repose 
A  troubled  memory  of  wrong 
Done  in  health's  day,  when  passions  strong 
Swayed  me  —  repentance  spoke  and  peace, 
Hope,  and  from  dark  remorse  release. 

Lonely,  in  thought,  I  travelled  o'er 
Days  past,  and  joys  to  come  no  more ; 
Sat  watching  the  low  beating  fire. 
And  saw  its  flames  shoot  up,  expire. 


FRAGMENT    OF    A\    EPISTLE.  107 

Like  cheerful  thoughts  that  glance  their  light 
Atiuvart  the  niiiul,  and,  then,  't  is  night. 
For  ever  night  ?  —  The  Eternal  One, 
With  sacred  fire  from  forth  liis  throne, 
Has  touched  my  lunu't.     O,  fail  it  not 
When  days  of  healtii  shall  be  my  lot ! 

Beside  me,  Patience,  suffering's  child, 
With  gentle  voice  and  aspect  mUd, 
Sat  chanting  to  me  song  so  holy, 
A  song  to  soothe  my  melancholy  ; 
Won  me  to  learn  of  her  to  bear 
Sorrows,  and  pains,  and  all  that  wear 
Our  hearts,  —  me,  chained  by  sickness,  taught, 
Prisoner  to  none  the  free  of  thought : 
A  truth  sublime,  btit  slowly  learned 
By  one  who  for  earth's  freshness  yearned. 

From  open  air  and  ample  sky 
Pent  up,  —  tlius  doomed  for  days  to  lie,  — 
'T  was  trial  hard  to  me,  a  stranger 
To  long  confinement,  me,  a  ranger 
Througii  bare  or  leafy  wood,  o'er  hill, 
O'er  field,  by  shore,  or  by  the  rill, 
When  taking  hues  from  bending  flowers, 
Or  stealing  dark  by  crystal  bowers 
Built  uj)  by  winter,  on  its  bank, 
( )f  branches  shot  from  vapour  dank ; 
And  hard  to  sit,  and  see  boys  slide 
O'er  crusted  plain  stretched  smooth  and  wide. 
Or  down  the  steep  and  shining  drift. 
With  shout  and  call,  shoot  light  and  swift. 


108  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 

But  I  could  stand  at  set  of  sun, 
And  see  the  snow  he  shone  upon 
Change  to  a  path  of  glory,  —  see 
The  rainbow  hues  'twLxt  him  and  me,  — 
Orange,  and  gi-een,  and  golden  light. 
I  thought  on  that  celestial  sight. 
That  city  seen  by  aged  John, 
City  with  walls  of  precious  stone. 
Brighter  and  brighter  grew  the  road 
'TwLxt  me  and  the  descending  god  ; 
And  while  I  yearned  to  tread  its  length, 
Down  went  the  Sun  in  aU  his  strength. 

And  gone  his  path,  like  the  steps  of  light 
By  angels  trod  at  dead  of  night. 
While  Jacob  slept.     Around  my  room 
The  shadows  deepen ;  while  the  gloom 
Visits  my  soul,  in  converse  high 
Lifted  but  now,  when  heaven  was  nigh. 

Why  could  not  I,  in  spirit,  raise 
Pillar  of  Bethel  to  His  praise 
Who  blessed  me,  and  free  worship  pay, 
Like  Isaac's  son  upon  his  way  ? 
Are  holy  thoughts  but  happy  dreams 
Chased  by  despair,  as  starry  gleams 
By  clouds  ?  —  Nay,  turn,  and  read  thy  mind ; 
Nay,  look  on  Nature's  face,  and  find 
Kind,  gentle  graces,  thoughts  to  raise 
The  tired  spirit,  —  hope  and  praise. 

O,  kind  to  me,  in  darkest  hour 
She  led  me  forth,  with  gentle  power. 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE.  109 

From  lonely  thouglit,  from  sad  unrest, 
To  peace  of  mind,  and  to  her  breast 
Tlie  son,  who  always  loved  her,  pressed ; 
Called  u}5  the  moon  to  cheer  me  ;  laid 
Its  silver  light  on  bank  and  glade. 
And  bade  it  throw  mysterious  beams 
O'er  ice-clad  hill,  which  steely  gleams 
Sent  back,  a  knight  who  took  his  rest, 
His  burnished  shield  above  liis  breast. 
The  fence  of  long,  rough  rails,  that  went 
O'er  trackless  snows,  a  beauty  lent ; 
Glittered  each  cold  and  icy  bar 
Beneath  the  moon,  like  shafts  of  war. 
And  there  a  lovely  tracery 
Of  branch  and  twig  that  naked  tree 
Of  shadows  soft  and  dim  has  wove, 
And  spread  so  gently,  that  above 
The  pure  white  snow  it  seems  to  float 
Lighter  than  that  celestial  boat, 
The  silver-beaked  moon,  on  air,  — 
Lighter  than  feathery  gossamer  ; 
As  if  its  darkening  touch,  through  fear, 
It  held  from  thing  so  saintly  clear. 

Thus  Nature  threw  her  beauties  round  me  ; 
Thus  from  the  gloom  in  which  she  found  me, 
She  won  mc  by  her  simjile  graces. 
She  wooed  me  with  her  happy  faces. 

Th(i  day  is  dosed  ;  and  T  refrain 
From  further  talk.     But  il'  of  \yd.in 

VOL.   L  iU 


110 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 


It  has  beguiled  a  weary  hour, 
If  to  my  desert  mind,  like  shower 
That  wets  the  parching  earth,  has  come 
A  cheerful  thought,  and  made  its  home 
With  me  awhile,  a  friend  may  share, 
Who  feels  with  me  in  ills  I  bear. 


THE    PLEASURE-BOAT, 


Come,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go  I 
They  're  seated  side  by  side  ; 

"Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow ; 
The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 

The  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat. 

Loose  I    Give  her  to  the  wind ! 
She  shoots  ahead ;  they  're  all  afloat ; 

The  strand  is  far  behind. 

No  danger  reach  so  fair  a  crew  I 
Thou  goddess  of  the  foam, 

I  '11  ever  pay  thee  worship  due, 
If  tliou  wilt  bring  them  home. 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  sjiray 
The  prow  is  dashing  wide, 

Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way. 
Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide  ! 


112  THE    PLEASURE-BOAT. 


O,  might  I  like  those  breezes  be, 
And  touch  that  arching  brow, 

I  'd  dwell  for  ever  on  the  sea 
Where  ye  are  floating  now. 


The  boat  goes  tilting  on  the  waves ; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by ; 
There  dips  the  duck,  —  her  back  she  laves ; 

O'erhead  the  sea-gulls  fly. 

Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops ; 
Now,  rising,  shoots  along  her  way, 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoops. 

The  sunlight  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift, 
Sparlding,  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat. 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 

The  winds  are  fresh ;  she  's  driving  fast 

Upon  the  bending  tide ; 
The  crinkling  sail,  and  crinkling  mast. 

Go  with  her  side  by  side. 

Why  dies  the  breeze  away  so  soon  ? 

Why  hangs  the  pennant  down  ? 
The  sea  is  glass ;  the  sun  at  noon.  — 

Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown  ;  — 


THE    PLEASURl>UOAT.  113 

For,  see,  the  winged  tisliers  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea : 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom. 

Whose  eyes  look  up  at  thee  ? 

She  smiles ;  thou  need'st  must  smile  on  her. 

And,  see,  beside  her  face 
A  rich,  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir  : 

What  beauty,  and  what  grace ! 

And  pictured  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

And  peaked  rock,  and  hill, 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairy  land : 

How  lovely  and  how  still  I 

From  that  far  isle  the  thresher's  flail 

Strikes  close  upon  the  ear ; 
The  leaping  fir^h,  the  swinging  sail 

Of  yonder  sloop,  sound  near. 

The  parting  sun  sends  out  a  glow 

Across  the  placid  bay, 
Touching  witii  glory  all  the  show. — 

A  breeze  I     Up  helm  I     Away  ! 

Careening  to  the  wind,  tliey  reach, 

Witii  laugh  and  call,  the  shore. 
Tlicy  've  U'ft  their  foot-prints  on  the  beach. 

But  tlicrii  I  In^'ar  no  luorc. 
lU* 


THE   EARLY   SPUING   BROOK. 


Wellnigh  a  year,  swift-running  Brook,  is  past 
Since  I,  upon  thy  fresh  green  side. 
Stood  here,  and  saw  thy  waters  glide. 

But  not,  as  now  they  flow,  rough,  turbid,  fast. 

'T  was  twilight  then ;  and  Dian  hung  her  bow 
Low  down  the  west ;  and  there  a  star 
Kindly  on  thee  and  me,  from  far. 

Looked  out,  and  blessed  us  through  the  passing  glow. 

A  goodly  fellowship  of  day  and  night ; 
The  day,  the  moon,  the  stars,  in  one,  — 
Night  scarcely  come,  day  scarcely  gone,  — 

In  mutual  love  they  shed  harmonious  light. 

It  fell  in  peace  upon  thy  face,  fair  Brook,  — 
The  glittering  starlight,  paler  moon. 
Day's  last,  warm  glow :  but  that  full  soon 

Faded,  e'en  while  I  stood  to  feel  and  look. 


TllK    KAKl.Y    Sl'RINC     BROOK.  115 

Alul  tlu'ii  tliv  tiiiv  beach,  no  li)ii<'cr  ivd. 

Took  IVoin  the  other  lumps  its  hue, 

As  star  on  star,  in  order  due, 
Came  out  and  lighted  up  thy  pebbly  bed. 

The  ground-bird  in  thy  bank  had  made  her  nest. 

She  sat  and  dreamed  about  her  brood. 

And  where  next  day  to  gather  food ; 
And  with  thy  song  well  soothed,  she  took  her  rest. 

It  pained  me  that  my  footsteps  caused  her  fear; 

For  I  had  come  with  weary  heart 

To  sit  with  her  and  take  a  part 
In  star  and  moon,  and  thy  low  song  to  hear. 

Fly  not  the  broken-hearted,  bird  I     I  crave 

Thy  innocence,  thy  gentle  trust. 

Chirp  by  iiic  now,  and  whrn  I'm  dust. 
Come,  make  thy  habitatit))i  by  my  grave. 

So  wished  I  then  ;  and  more  my  spirit  spoke  ; 

And  hopes  and  wishes,  mingling,  said. 

Thou  shalt  within  thy  grave  be  laid 
Ere  other  spring  return  :  —  my  heart  was  broke. 

Yet  still,  more  sad  and  lonely,  here  T  tread 

Thy  banks  again,  imfettcn'd  Hrook. 

Now,  l)y  the  living  I  'm  forsook  : 
Before.  T  moin'ned  vonr  loss  alone,  ye  dead. 


116  THE    EARLY    SPRING    BROOK. 

The  cords  of  sympathy  nigh  all  untied! 
And  when  I  raise  an  eye  by  chance. 
The  half-hid  sneer,  the  sidelong  glance, 

Say,  Not  of  us  !  —  Would  I  had  long  since  died ! 

And  those  of  hearts  of  all  too  gentle  mould 
To  pain  the  pained,  by  silence  say, 
We  ne'er  can  walk  the  selfsame  way ! 

And  shake  them  loose,  where  all  my  hopes  took  hold. 

Why,  I  can  bear  hot  anger  and  the  frown, — 
Much  better  far  than  feigned  regard,  — 
I  mind  them  not ;  they  make  me  hard  : 

But  severed  and  yet  kind  !  —  it  weighs  me  down. 

Come,  teach  me  patience,  then,  O  Thou,  for  whom 

I  take  this  sorrow  to  my  breast ; 

Speak  to  me,  give  my  spirit  rest, 
And  make  me  ready  for  the  last  great  doom. 

Here,  too,  there  has  been  sadness  since  that  I 
Last  talked  with  thee.     Thy  banks  were  green. 
Bright  reeds  and  flowers  no  more  are  seen. 

And  where  are  they  ?     Alas !  do  they,  too,  die  ? 

Thou  then  wast  all  o'er  beauty,  softness,  youth ; 

In  self-wove  garments  mad'st  thee  gay ; 

Didst  play  and  dance  by  night  and  day ; 
But  now !  —  How  simple  nature  teaches  truth  ! 


THE    EARLY    SPRING    BROOK.  117 

Thy  cold,  damp,  frost-bound  bank  is  like  a  rock ; 
Thy  green,  unsigiitly  brown ;  and  bare 
The  stems  that  made  and  took  a  share 

Of  beauty  with  thee  :  —  all  have  felt  the  shock. 

A  frost  like  death  came  in,  and  changed  the  face 
Of  tree  and  iierb.     Up  rose  the  wind, 
And  loud  and  strong,  with  fury  blind, 

Broke  through,  nor  of  thy  beauty  left  a  trace. 

Awhile  it  roared ;  the  faded  leaves  it  tossed, 
Then  dashed  them  in  thy  face  in  scorn  ; 
'T  is  I,  it  said,  thy  bowers  have  torn  I 

And,  rushing  on,  far  in  the  woods  was  lost. 

Thus  ended  thy  bright  festival.     Thy  hall,  — 
The  place  of  song  and  dance  before, — 
Silent,  and  barred  its  icy  door ; 

And  o'er  thee  winter  threw  his  cold,  white  jiall. 

Its  folds  unwTapped,  thy  doors  now  open  thrown, 

Droj^s  iunn  the  shelving  ice  fall  fast; 

'J'he  light,  too,  shining  in  at  last, 
Shows  straws  and  leaves  along  thy  bottom  strown. 

But  soon  thy  channel  will  again  run  clear; 
Along  thy  clean  and  pebbly  bed 
The  sj)riiig-/l()wers  on  thy  i)riin  be  d'd. 

And  earth's  and  thy  own  music  thou  shalt  hear. 


118  THE    EARLY    SPRING    BROOK. 

Thou  'It  be  too  merry  then  to  mind  the  sigh 
Heaved  by  the  lonely,  broken  heart, 
Though  near  thee.     Here,  then,  let  us  part. 

For  there 's  no  spring  for  joys  like  mine,  that  die. 

The  blasted  spirit  of  fond,  thoughtful  men 
Can  feel  no  second  earthly  youth : 
Their  sorrows  share  the  strength  of  truth.  — 

At  leaf-fall.  Brook,  I  '11  visit  thee  again. 


THE    CHANTING    CHERUBS. 


This  group,  cxecuteil  by  Horatio  Greenough,  for  J.  Fenimore  Cooper,  givea  you  a  feel- 
ing of  uiunineled  hnppinc^j  as  you  cast  your  eyes  upon  it.  The  two  little  creatures 
are  themselves  instinct  with  it ;  and  no  sadness  creei>3  over  your  spirit,  as  it  does  when 
you  look  upon  a  cliild  ;  for  then  comes  in  the  thousht  of  frailly ;  and  you  know  that  when 
the  sun  opens  that  bud,  the  dew  of  its  youth  will  dry  up,  and  that  it  will  fade  soon,  and 
its  freshness  and  odour  be  lost.  But  these  little  beings  seem  to  have  lighted  here  from 
a  belter  world,  where  happiness  is  as  lasting  as  it  is  pure.  And  so  busy  and  pleased  are 
Ihey  in  their  song  of  praise,  as  not  to  heed  us  poor  creatures,  who  stand  gazing  on 
Ihem,  —  blessed  spirits  ! 

The  execution  of  this  gmup  is  not  inferior  to  the  conception.  IMr.  Grecnough  shows 
himself  to  be  a  close  student  of  nature,  and  to  have  a  hand  as  true  as  his  eye.  What 
flc5h,  too!  you  are  almast  persuaded  that  it  will  yield  to  your  touch.  Tlie  action,  also, 
and  the  dependent  attitude  of  the  younger  Cherub  are  beautifully  contrasted  with  the  more 
erect  posture  and  the  repose  of  the  older  figure.  Not  the  least  pleasing  thought  connected 
with  this  work  of  art  is.  that,  while  so  many  men  of  genius  disgrace  themselves  by  envy- 
inc»  and  detraction,  this  group  was  executed  by  the  first  American  Sculptor,  for  one  who, 
with  Charles  Brockden  Brown,  sUnds  at  the  head  of  American  Novelists. 

It  ia  a  sin  against  God,  and  a  \a»o  vice,  to  envy  another  his  excellence.  If  man  would 
remember  and  feel  the  words.  It  is  not  of  yourselves :  it  is  the  gift  of  God:  he  would  be 
bumble,  and  able  to  rejoice  in  another's  wcU-duing. 


I. 


Wnr.NCK  come  ye,  Cherub.s?  from  the  moon? 

Or  from  a  sliiiiin^  star  ? 
Ye,  sure,  arc  .'^ciit,  a  bh'.s.sed  l)()()ii, 
From  kiiidrr  world.s  afar; 
For  wliilt;  1  look,  my  heart  is  all  deli^dit: 
Earth  has  no  creatures  half  so  pure  and  briglil. 


120  THE  CHANTING  CHERUBS. 

II. 

From  moon  nor  star  we  hither  flew ; 

The  moon  doth  wane  away,  — 
The  stars,  they  pale  at  morning  dew  : 
We  're  children  of  the  day  ; 
Nor  change,  nor  night,  was  ever  ours  to  bear ; 
Eternal  light,  and  love,  and  joy,  we  share. 

III. 

Then,  sons  of  light,  from  Heaven  above, 

Some  blessed  news  ye  bring. 
Come  ye  to  chant  eternal  love, 
And  tell  how  angels  sing. 
And  in  yoiu'  breathing,  conscious  forms  to  show, 
How  purer  forms  above  live,  breathe,  and  glow  ? 

IV. 

Om*  parent  is  a  human  mind  ; 

His  winged  thoughts  are  we  ; 
To  sun  nor  stars  are  we  confined : 
We  pierce  the  deepest  sea. 
Moved  by  a  brother's  call,  our  Father  bade 
Us  light  on  earth  :  and  here  our  flight  is  stayed. 


THE  MOSS  SUPPLICATETH  FOR 
THE  POET. 


Though  I  am  humble,  slight  me  not, 
But  love  me  for  the  Poet's  sake  ; 

Forget  me  not  till  he  's  forgot ; 
For  care  or  slight  with  him  I  take. 


*o' 


For  oft  he  passed  the  blossoms  by. 
And  turned  to  me  with  kindly  look  ; 

Left  flaunting  flowers  and  open  sky. 
And  wooed  me  by  the  shady  l>rook. 

And  like  the  brook  his  voice  was  low : 
So  soft,  so  sad  the  words  ho  spoke, 

That  with  the  stream  they  seemed  to  flow : 
They  told  mc  that  his  heart  was  broke. 

They  said  the  world  he  fain  would  shun, 

And  seek  the  still  and  twilight  wood, — 
His  spirit,  weary  of  Ihc  sun, 

III  humblest  things  found  c-hiefcst  good; 
vol..  I.  11 


122     THE  MOSS  SUPPLICATETH  FOR  THE  POET. 

That  1  was  of  a  lowly  frame, 

And  far  more  constant  than  the  flower, 
Which,  vain  with  many  a  boastful  name, 

But  fluttered  out  its  idle  hour ; 

That  I  was  kind  to  old  decay, 

And  wrapped  it  softly  round  in  green. 

On  naked  root,  and  trunk  of  gray, 
Spread  out  a  garniture  and  screen. 

They  said,  that  he  was  withering  fast. 
Without  a  sheltering  friend  like  me  ; 

That  on  his  manhood  fell  a  blast, 
And  left  him  bare,  like  yonder  tree  ; 

That  spring  would  clothe  his  boughs  no  more, 
Nor  ring  his  boughs  with  song  of  bird,  — 

Sounds  like  the  melancholy  shore 

Alone  were  through  his  branches  heard. 

Methought,  as  then  he  stood  to  trace 

The  withered  stems,  there  stole  a  tear,  — 

That  I  could  read  in  his  sad  face. 
Brothers,  our  sorrows  make  us  near. 

And  then  he  stretched  him  all  along, 
And  laid  his  head  upon  my  breast, 

Listening  the  water's  peaceful  song :  — 
How  glad  was  I  to  tend  his  rest ! 


THC    MOSS    :>UI'rLICATKTH     I'OU    THE    POET.  123 

Then  haj)pier  grew  his  soothed  soul ; 

He  turned  and  watclied  iht-  sunlight  play 
Upon  my  face,  as  in  it  stole, 

Whispering,  Above  is  brighter  day  I 

He  praised  my  varied  hues,  —  the  green, 

The  silver  hoar.  The  golden,  brown; 
Said,  Lovelier  hues  were  never  seen ; 

Then  gently  pressed  my  tender  down. 

And  where  I  sent  up  little  shoots. 

He  called  them  trees,  in  fond  conceit : 

Like  silly  lovers  in  their  suits 

He  talked,  his  care  awhile  to  cheat. 

I  said,  I  xl  deck  me  in  the  dews, 

Could  I  but  chase  away  his  care, 
And  clothe  me  in  a  thousand  hues, 

To  bring  him  joys  that  I  might  share. 

He  answered,  earth  no  blessing  had 

To  cure  his  lone  and  aching  heart; 
That  I  was  one,  when  he  was  sad, 

Oft  stole  him  from  liis  ]);iin,  in  part. 

But  t^'cn  from  tluT,  lie  said,  I  go, 

To  meet  the  world,  its  care  and  strife, 

No  more  to  watcli  this  (|iii<f  (low, 
Or  speiul  with  tln.'c  a  gentle  life. 


124     THE  MOSS  SUPPLICATETH  FOR  THE  POET. 

And  yet  the  brook  is  gliding  on, 
And  I,  without  a  care,  at  rest, 

While  he  to  toiling  life  is  gone  ; 
Nor  finds  his  head  a  faithful  breast. 

Deal  gently  with  him,  world,  I  pray  ; 

Ye  cares,  like  softened  shadows  come  ; 
His  spirit,  weUnigh  worn  away, 

Asks  with  ye  but  awhile  a  home. 

O,  may  I  live,  and  when  he  dies 

Be  at  his  feet  a  humble  sod ; 
O,  may  I  lay  me  where  he  lies, 

To  die  when  he  awakes  in  God ! 


A    CLUMP    OF    JJAISIES. 


I. 

Ye  daisies  gay, 

Thiis  fresh  spring  day 
Close  gathered  here  together, 

To  play  in  the  light, 

To  sleep  all  the  night, 
To  abide  through  the  8ullen  weather; 

II. 

Ye  creatures  bland, 

A  simple  band. 
Ye  free  ones,  linked  in  pleasure. 

And  linked  when  your  forms 

Stoop  low  in  the  storms. 
And  the  rain  c-omes  down  without  measure  ; 

nr. 

When  wild  elouds  lly 

Athwart  the  sky. 
And  ghostly  shadows,  glaneing, 

Arr  darkcnini;  the  gleam 

Of  the  hiirrvini;  stream, 
And  y<»nr  i  |(.>e,  l»rigin  heads  gaylv  dancing; 
II 


126  A    CLUMP    OF    DAISIES. 

IV. 

Though  dull  awhile, 

Again  ye  smile ; 
For,  see,  the  warm  sun  breaking  ; 

The  stream  's  going  glad, 

There  's  nothing  now  sad. 
And  the  small  bird  his  song  is  waking. 

V. 

The  dew-drop  sip 

With  dainty  lip ! 
The  sun  is  low  descended. 

And,  Moon  !  softly  fall 

On  troop  true  and  small ! 
Sky  and  earth  in  one  kindly  blended. 

VI. 

And,  Morning !  spread 

Their  jewelled  bed 
"With  lights  in  the  east  sky  springing ! 

And,  Brook!  breathe  around 

Thy  low  murmured  sound ! 
May  they  move,  ye  Birds,  to  your  singing ! 

VII. 

For  in  their  play 

I  hear  them  say, 
Here,  man,  thy  wisdom  borrow ; 

In  heart  be  a  child. 

In  word,  true  and  mild : 
Hold  thy  faith,  come  joy,  or  come  sorrow, 


CHANTREY'S    WASHINGTON, 


And  ihou  art  home  again  in  marble ! 
Remembered  be  thy  name  in  poels'  story, 
Who  led  the  land  tliroujh  fire  and  blood  to  glory  ;  ■ 
Our  Father,  next  to  Him  in  heaven ! 


Father  and  Chief,  how  calm  thou  staiid'st  once  more 
Upon  thine  own  free  land,  thou  wonn'st  with  toil! 
Seest  thou  upon  thy  Country's  robe  a  soil, 
As  she  comes  down  to  greet  thee  on  the  shore  ? 

For  thought  in  that  fine  brow  is  living  still,  — 
Such  thought,  as,  looking  far  oft'  into  time, 
Casting  by  fear,  stood  up  in  strength  sublime. 
When  odds  in  war  shook  vale  and  shore  and  hill ;  — 

Such  thought  as  th(.'n  possessed  thee,  when  was  hiid 
Our  dcfp  foMiidatioM,  —  when  the  fal)rie  shook 
With  the  wratliliil  surge  which  high  againsl  it  Itroke, — 
When  at  thy  voice  the  blind,  wild  sea  was  slayer.!. 


128  CHANTRBy's    WASHINGTON. 

Hast  heard  our  strivings,  that  thou  look'st  away 
Into  the  future,  pondering  still  our  fate 
With  thoughtful  mind  ?     Thou  readest,  sure,  the  date 
To  strifes,  —  thou  seest  a  glorious  coming  day. 

For  round  those  lips  dwells  sweetness,  breathing  good 
To  sad  men's  souls,  and  bidding  them  take  heart, 
Nor  live  the  shame  of  those  who  bore  their  part 
When  round  their  towering  chief  they  banded  stood. 

No  swelling  pride  in  that  firm,  ample  chest ! 
The  full  rich  robe  falls  round  thee,  fold  on  fold, 
With  easy  grace,  in  thy  scarce  conscious  hold : 
How  simple  in  thy  grandeur,  —  strong  in  rest ! 

'T  is  like  thee  :  Such  repose  thy  living  form 
Wrapped  round.    Though  some  chained  passion,  break- 
ing forth, 
At  times  swept  o'er  thee  Kke  the  fierce,  dread  north. 
Yet  calmer,  nobler,  cam'st  thou  from  the  storm. 

O  mystery  past  thought  I  that  the  cold  stone 
Should  live  to  us,  take  shape,  and  to  us  speak,  — 
That  he,  in  mind,  in  grandeur,  like  the  Greek, 
And  he,  our  pride,  stand  here,  the  two  in  one  I 

There  's  awe  in  thy  still  form.     Come  hither,  then. 
Ye  that  o'erthrong  the  land,  and  ye  shall  know 
What  greatness  is,  nor  please  ye  in  its  show,  — 
Come,  look  on  him,  would  ye  indeed  be  men ! 


THE    LITTLE    BEACH-BIRD. 


I. 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
Along  the  breakers  fly  ? 
O,  rather,  Bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  I 

II. 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us  :    Tliy  wail,  — 
What  doth  it  bring  to  me? 

III. 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad  ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge, — 
Tlic  Mystery,  —  tlie  Word. 


130  THE    LITTLE    BEACH-BIRD. 

IV. 

Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean  !    A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells, 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells,  — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall. 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

V. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  Bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more ; 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore. 
And  on  the  meadows  light, 
Where  birds  for  gladness  sing ! 


GREENOUGH'S  STATUE  OF  MEDORA. 


Medora,  wake  I  —  nay,  do  not  wake  I 
I  would  not  stir  that  placid  brow, 
Nor  lift  those  lids,  though  light  should  break 
Warm  from  the  twin  blue  heavens  that  lie  below. 

Sleep  falls  on  thee,  as  on  the  streams 
The  summer  moon.    Touched  by  its  might. 
The  soul  comes  out  in  loving  dreams. 
And  wraps  thy  delicate  form  in  living  light. 

Tliou  art  not  dead  !  —  These  flowers  say 
That  thou,  though  more  thou  heed'st  them  not. 
Didst  rear  them  once  for  him  away, 
Thf'ii  loose  them  in  thy  hold  like  things  forgot. 

And  lay  thee  here  where  thou  might'st  weep,  — 
That  Death  but  hushed  thee  to  repose, 
As  mothers  tend  their  infants'  sleep. 
And  watch  their  eyelids  falter,  open,  close, — 


132  greenough's  statue  of  medora. 

That  here  thy  heart  hath  found  release, 
Thy  sorrows  all  are  gone  away, 
Or  touched  by  something  almost  peace. 
Like  night's  last  shadows  by  the  gleaming  day. 


When  he  who  gave  thee  form  is  gone, 
And  I  within  the  earth  shall  lie. 
Thou  stiU  shalt  slumber  softly  on. 
Too  fair  to  live,  too  beautiful  to  die. 


TO    A    GARDEN-FLOWER 


SENT    ME    BY    A    LADY. 


No,  not  in  woods,  nor  fells,  nor  pastures  wild, 
Nor  left  alone  to  changeful  nature's  care, 
Vou  opened  on  the  light  and  breathed  the  air ; 
But  one  witli  blush  like  thine,  and  look  as  mild 
As  dewed  morn,  with  love  all  undefiled. 
Chose  out  a  kindly  spot,  and  made  thy  bed 
Safe  from  the  cruel  blast  and  heedless  tread. 
And  watched  thy  l)irth,  and  took  thee  for  her  child. 
And  human  hands  solicitous  have  trained 
Thy  slender  stalk,  and  eyes  on  thee  have  dwelt 
Radiant  with  thought,  and  human  feelings  rained 
Into  thy  bosom,  e'en  till  thou  hast  felt 
That  through  thy  life  a  human  virtue  ran  ; 
And  now  art  conic  to  greet  thy  fellow-man. 


VOL.  I.  12 


I    SAW    HER    ONCE 


I  SAW  her  once  I  and  still  I  see 
That  thoughtful  eye  and  placid  brow  ; 
That  voice,  it  spoke  but  once  to  me,  — 
That  quiet  voice,  I  hear  it  now  I 

Where'er  I  go,  my  soul  is  blest ; 

She  meets  me  there,  a  cheering  light, 

And  when  I  sink  away  to  rest, 

She  murmurs  near.  Good  night,  good  night  I 

Our  earthly  forms  are  far  apart ; 
But  can  our  spirits  be  so  nigh. 
Nor  I  a  home  within  her  heart  ? 
And  love  but  dream  her  fond  reply  ? 

O,  no !     The  form  that  I  behold,  — 
No  shaping  this  of  memory  I 
Her  self,  her  self,  is  here  ensouled  !  — 
I  saw  her  once,  —  and  still  I  see ! 


ON    RECEIVING    FLOWERS, 

DURING    ILLNESS,  FROM    A    LADY. 


I. 

I  LOVED  you  ever,  gentle  flowers. 
And  made  you  playmates  of  my  youth ; 
The  while  your  spirit  stole 
In  secret  to  my  soul, 
To  shed  a  softness  through  my  ripening  powers, 
And  lead  the  thoughtful  mind  to  deepest  truth. 

II. 

And  now,  when  weariness  and  pain 
Had  cast  you  almost  from  my  breast. 
With  each  a  smiling  face, 
In  all  your  simple  grace. 
You  come  once  more  to  take  me  back  again 
From  pain  to  ease,  from  weariness  to  rest. 

III. 

Kind  visitants,  through  my  sick  room 
You  seem  to  breathe  an  air  of  health, 
And  with  your  looks  of  joy 
To  wak(^  again  the  boy, 
And  to  the  pallid  chick  restore  its  bloom, 
And  o'er  the  desert  mind  ponr  bounteous  weallli. 


136  ON    RECEIVING    FLOWERS. 

IV. 

And  whence  you  came,  by  brimming  stream, 
'Neath  rustling  leaves  with  birds  within. 
Again  I  musing  tread,  — 
Forgot  my  restless  bed 
And  long,  sick  hours :  —  Too  short  the  blessed  dream ! 
I  wake  to  pain  and  all  the  city's  din. 

V. 

But  time  nor  pain  shall  ever  steal 
Or  youth  or  beauty  from  my  mind ;  — 
And,  blessings  on  you,  flowers ! 
Though  few  with  me  your  hours. 
The  youth,  and  beauty,  and  the  heart  to  feel 
In  her  who  sent  you  ye  will  leave  behind ! 


THE  DEATH  OF   WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


T  LOOK  through  tears  on  Beauty  now; 
And  Beauty's  self  less  radiant  looks  on  me  ; 
Serene,  yet  touched  with  sadness  is  the  brow, 
Once  briglit  with  joy,  I  see. 

Joy-waking  Beauty,  why  so  sad  ? 
Tell  wiiere  the  radiance  of  the  smile  is  gone, 
At  which  my  heart,  and  earth,  and  skies  were  glad,' 
Tliat  linked  us  all  in  one. 

It  is  not  on  the  mountain's  breast ; 
It  comes  not  to  me  with  the  dawning  day; 
Nor  looks  it  from  the  glories  of  the  west, 
As  slow  they  pass  away. 

.\(ir  on  those  gliding  rouiidlcts  lirighl, 
That  steal  their  play  among  the  woody  shades, 
Nor  on  thine  own  dear  children  doth  it  light, — 
Tin-  flowers  along  the  glades. 


138 


THE    DEATH    OF    WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


And  altered  to  the  Living  Mind 
(That  great  high-priestess,  with  her  thought-born  race 
Who  round  thine  altar  aye  have  stood  and  shined) 
The  comforts  of  thy  face. 

Why  shadowed  thus  thy  forehead  fair  ? 
Why  on  the  mind  low  hangs  a  mystic  gloom, 
And  spreads  away  upon  the  genial  air, 
Like  vapomrs  from  the  tomb  ? 

Why  should  ye  shine,  you  lights  above  ? 
Ye  little  flowers,  why  open  to  the  heat  ? 
No  more  within  the  heart  ye  filled  with  love 
The  living  pulses  beat. 

Well,  Beauty,  may  you  mourning  stand ! 
The  fine-beholding  eye,  whose  constant  look 
Was  turned  on  thee,  is  dark ;  and  cold  the  hand 
Gave  more  than  vision  took. 

Nay,  heart,  be  stUl !     Of  heavenly  birth 
Is  Beauty  sprung :  —  Look  up  !  —  behold  the  place ! 
There  He,  who  reverent  traced  Her  steps  on  earth. 

Now  sees  Her,  face  to  face. 


DAYBREAK 


The  Pilsrim  they  bid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  window  opened  towards  the 
sun-rising:  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace;  where  he  slept  till  break  of  day,  and 
then  he  awoko  and  sang.  —  The  Piigrim's  Progress. 


I. 

Now,  brighter  than  the  host  that  all  night  long, 

In  fiery  armour,  far  up  in  the  sky 

Stood  watch,  thou  com'st  to  wait  the  morning's  song, 

Thou  com'st  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh, 

Star  of  the  dawning!     Cheerful  is  thine  eye; 

And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 

Tliou  scem'st  to  look  on  me,  as  asking  wiiy 

My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim  ; 

Thou  bidd'st  me  turn  to  God,  and  seek  my  rest  in  Him. 

II. 

Can.st  thou  grow  sad,  thou  sayest,  as  earth  grows  bright  ? 

And  sigh,  whiMi  little  birds  begin  discourse 

In  tjuick,  low  voices,  ere  the  streaming  liglit 

Fours  on  their  nests,  from  out  the  day's  fresh  source? 

With  creatures  innocent  thou  must  perforce 

A  sharJT  be,  if  that  thin<!  heart  hv  purr. 

And  holy  hour  likf  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 

Of  ills  and  |)ains  of  life  must  hr  \\u\  cure, 

And  breathe  m  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to  (Midure. 


140  DAYBREAK. 

III. 

I  feel  its  calm.     But  there  's  a  sombrous  hue, 

Edging  that  eastern  cloud,  of  deep,  dull  red  ; 

Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew ; 

And  all  the  woods  and  hill-tops  stand  outspread 

With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort  shed. 

Still  —  save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song  — 

The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead ; 

The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 

And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate,  and  wrong. 

IV. 

But  wrong,  and  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth 
Will  quicken  soon  ;  and  hard,  hot  toil  and  strife. 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  the  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scattered  beauties  Nature 's  rife ; 
And  airs,  and  woods,  and  streams  breathe  harmonies :  — 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife ; 
Nor  binds  his  heart  with  soft  and  kindly  ties :  — 
He  feverish,  blinded,  lives,  and  feverish,  sated,  dies. 

V. 

It  is  because  man  useth  so  amiss 
Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad  ; 
Else  why  should  she  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this 
Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad. 
From  her  fair  face  ?  —  It  is  that  man  is  mad ! 
Then  chide  me  not,  clear  Star,  that  I  repine. 
When  Nature  grieves ;  nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 
Thou  look'st  toward  earth ;  but  yet  the  heavens  are  thine ; 
While  I  to  earth  am  bound  :  —  When  will  the  heavens 
be  uiiiie  ? 


DAYBREAK.  141 

VI. 

If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  learn, 
And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 
Of  simpler  things ;  could  Nature's  features  stern 
Teach  him  be  thoughtful,  then,  with  soul  intense, 
I  should  not  yearn  for  God  to  take  me  hence, 
But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bowed. 
Remembering  humbly  why  it  is,  and  whence : 
But  when  I  see  cold  man  of  reason  proud. 
My  solitude  is  sad,  —  I  'm  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

VII. 

But  not  for  this  alone  the  silent  tear 

Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn. 

Nor  for  this  solemn  hour :  fresh  Ufe  is  near ; 

But  all  my  joys,  —  they  died  when  newly  born. 

Thousands  will  wake  to  joy  ;  while  I,  forlorn. 

And  like  the  stricken  deer,  \vith  sickly  eye 

Shall  see  them  pass.     Breatiie  calm,  —  my  spirit 's  torn  ; 

Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high ! 

Ye  hopes  of  tilings  unseen,  the  far-off  world  bring  nigh ! 

VIII. 

And  when  I  grieve,  O,  rather  let  it  be 
That  I,  —  whom  Nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  roUing  sea, — 
Wlio,  when  the  winds  arc  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  woods  and  waters,  feel  the  quickening  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit,  —  wiio,  as  my  own  ciiild, 
Do  love  the  (lower,  and  in  the  ragged  l)ur 
A  beaOty  see,  —  that  I  this  inotlier  mild 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  care,  and  passions  fierce  and 
wild! 


142  DAYBREAK. 

IX. 

How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft 

Shot  'thwart  the  earth !     In  crown  of  living  fire 

Up  comes  the  Day !     As  if  they  conscious  quaffed 

The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city,  spire, 

Laugh  in  the  wakening  light.  —  Go,  vain  desire  I 

The  dusky  lights  are  gone ;  go  thou  thy  way ! 

And  pining  discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 

Be  called  my  chamber  Peace,  when  ends  the  day ; 

And  let  me  with  the  dawn,  like  Pilgrim,  sing  and  pray.. 


NOTES 


Preface  to  "  The  First  Edition  of  the  Poems. ''^  —  The  felicity  and 
truth  of  Lord  Byron's  expression,  in  relation  to  the  octo-syllabic 
verse,  (quoted  by  me  in  the  liist  paragraph  but  one  of  tiic  Preface.) 
leA  that  expression  impressed  upon  my  mind  after  the  exception  made 
by  liira  was  so  far  forgotten,  that,  when  reminded  of  it  by  some  news- 
paper notice  of  my  poems,  I  knew  not  where  to  turn  to  in  Byron  for 
thf  passage.  Having  since  found  it,  1  give  it  entire  :  —  "  Scott  alone, 
of  the  present  generation,  has  hitherto  completely  triumplied  over  the 
fatal  facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse  ;  and  this  is  not  the  least  victo- 
ry of  his  fertile  and  mighty  genius." 

After  this  opinion  from  a  great  modern  master  of  English  verse 
respecting  that  wonderful  man,  it  may  be  thought  that  it  would  have 
become  me  better  to  have  altogether  omitted,  at  this  time,  the  pas- 
sage in  the  Preface.  And  I  would  gladly  have  done  so,  could  I  have 
done  it  honestly  after  my  oversight,  and  while  my  convictions  rc- 
maiticd  unchanged.  The  newspaper  notice  to  whicli  1  have  referred, 
and  which  the  passage  in  Byron  has  kept  in  my  mind,  insinuates,  if 
I  rightly  recollect,  that  I  used  so  much  of  Byron  as  made  for  my  opin- 
ion, and  pur()o.sely  omitted  the  rest.  Had  the  writer  of  that  article 
known  ni<;,  he  wuuld  not  have  said  this;  and,  not  knowing  me,  he 
Bhould  not  have  presumed  it. 

As  this  is  a  question  of  fair-dealing  with  the  readi  r,  I  nceii  niako 
n<»  apology  for  the  length  of  the  note. 

Pa/re  8,  stanza  11.  —  In  that  passage  in  Lycidas,  whicli  fill.s  i  s  w  nli 
such  awe,  Milton  says  ;  — 

"  Tliu  t,'ri-ai  Vision  of  tlie  ;,'uardr(i  iiinuut 
r>X)lu  toward;*  Nauiuncoi,  imd  Uuyouu's  lixld  " 


144  NOTES. 

Although   the   cases   are   not  quite   parallel,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
thought  extravagant  in  calling  upon  old  Merlin  to 

"  Hear  the  shout  yrom  Spain." 

Page  60.  —  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  that  my  allusion  to  the  story 
of  "Pedler  Stout"  may  not  be  understood  by  those  born  since  my 
nursery  days.  Were  it  not  too  long,  I  would  insert  it  here,  for  the 
benefit  of  such  persons.  The  effect  which  the  Pedler's  treatment  had 
upon  the  little  egg-woman,  (the  nature  of  which  treatment  my  allusion 
will  sufficiently  explain,)  in  leading  her  to  question  herself  upon  her 
personal  identity ;  the  means  which  she  took  to  solve  so  important  a 
question  ;  and  the  melancholy  conclusion  to  which  these  brought  her, 
that  she  was  not  herself,  or,  to  use  her  own  words,  — 

"  Sure,  this  is  none  of  I !  "  — 
all  serve  to  render  it,  not  only  a  tale  of  deep  interest  to  the  general 
reader,  but  also  one  well  worthy  the  study  of  philosophers  in  the  high 
matters  of  Self-consciousness  and  the  Ego,  at  the  present  day. 


THE     I  1)  L  E     MAN. 


How  various  his  eniployineiUji,  whom  the  world 
Calla  idle  ! 

COWPEB. 


VOL.   I.  13 


PREFACE 
TO    THE    EDITION    OF    1833. 


The  Wuiter  of  The  Idle  Max  to  his  Old  Friends:  — 

It  is  a  little  more  than  ten  years  since  I  sent  forth  niy  last 
number  of"  The  Idle  Man.  It  was  the  first  number  of  an  in- 
tended second  volume  :  I  had  not  long  before  closed  the  first 
volume,  in  these  words  :  —  "It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  have  our 
lonely  labours  helped  on  by  the  remembrance  that  they  have 
mot  with  kind  encouragopient,  and  by  the  belief  that  they  will 
meet  with  still  more."  In  thi«  belief,  however,  I  was  mistaken  ; 
and  I  fouiul  it  neccs.sary  to  stop  the  work.  It  was  painful  to 
do  so  ;  for  the  continual  stimulus  of  an  interesting  purpose  bo- 
fore  me  kept  the  mind  clear  and  active,  and  the  spirits  elastic, 
under  the  weifzht  that  pressed  upon  tlw m.  It  is  true  that  I  had 
disjigreeable  things  to  encountrr  ;  — ■  as  wiiat  man  has  not  who  ia 
somowhat  newly  before  the  public,  especially  if  he  discovers 
individuality  of  character,  earnestness  of  feeling,  and  a  steady 
reliance  upon  his  own  opinions  and  tastes  .'* 

I  should,  indeed,  have  been  wanting  to  myself,  had  I  sufTercd 
these  obstructions  to  trouble  me  any  further  than  they  stopped 
the  way  to  needed  pecuniary  success.  And  why  should  they 
have  troublr-d  me  furtlxr.'  1  nevrr  much  allicted  notoriety; 
so  there  were  no  ambitious  desires  to  be  crossed  on  that  road. 
I  had  the  approbation  of  thoscj  whose  opinions  I  had  always 
held   in  honour;    ami   wliai    was  far    iM-tlir  and    more   heart- 


148  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

comforting,  I  had  their  sympathy  and  love.  Last  of  all,  let  me 
be  allowed  to  say,  that  I  could  not  feel  such  an  inferiority  to 
those  who  were  given  to  fault-finding,  as  to  be  shaken  in  my 
humble  trust  in  those  powers  with  which  God  had  seen  fit  to 
bless  me. 

I  have  alluded  to  these  things,  to  account  for  a  long  silence, 
seldom  broken.  For  though  I  cannot  bow  to  a  certain  dicta- 
torial manner  in  which  the  claims  of  the  public  upon  the  indi- 
vidual are  now-a-days  apt  to  bo  set  up,  yet  I  feel  as  much  as 
any  man  the  obligation  upon  each  one  to  do,  according  to  his 
ability,  for  that  world  in  which  the  Creator  has  placed  him. 

If  I  should  be  asked  what  it  is  that  encourages  me  to  come 
once  more  before  the  public,  notwithstanding  my  former  disap- 
pointment, I  would  answer,  that  I  am  better  known  now  than 
I  was  then,  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  proportionably  more  in 
favour;  and  that,  although  the  majority  are,  for  the  present, 
running  into  physical  pursuits,  yet  of  those  who  keep  their 
hold  upon  literature  there  is  a  rapidly  increasing  class,  be- 
tween whose  speculations,  opinions,  and  tastes,  and  my  own,  I 
can  feel  there  is  growing  up  a  social  and  cheering  agreement. 
And  this  is  a  delightful  reflection  to  me  ;  for  to  feel  solitary, 
even  in  that  which  is  in  itself  innocent,  is  sad,  and  hurts  our 
hearts  too,  if  we  keep  not  a  watch  over  them. 

And,  here,  I  would  say :  Let  any  one  who  has  an  inward 
conviction  that  he  holds  the  truth  (no  matter  what  the  subject) 
gather  strength  from  thence,  and  feel  assured,  that  although  the 
multitude  immediately  around  him,  with  but  a  few  exceptions, 
may  differ  from  him,  yet  there  are  still  seven  thousand,  some- 
where in  Israel,  who  have  not  bowed  the  knee.  It  is  not 
strange  that  the  united  company  around  us  should  believe 
themselves  to  be  "  all  the  world  "  ;  but  it  is  strange  that  those 
who  ao-ree  with  them  in  little  beside  should  ever  think  them 
so  too. 

I  am  aware  that  my  writings  may  never  make  me  what  is 
called  "  a  general  favourite  "  ;  and  if,  from  the  study  of  my- 
self and  others,  I  had  not  lung  ago  come  to  this'conclusion,  the 


PRKFACE.  149 

concern  for  me  of  some  well-meaning  acquaintance  would 
ere  this  have  lod  mo  to  it. 

Wlicn,  for  instance,  I  liave  been  heard  to  speak  of  that  de- 
lightful gentleman,  Mr.  Geotfrey  Crayon,  —  so  tender  and  mov- 
ing, when  he  chooses  to  be  so,  yet  so  delicately  blending  the 
humorous  with  tlie  sad,  (a  rare  power,  and  one  in  wliich  he 
has  scarcely  been  surpassed,)  and  possessed,  withal,  of  such 
winning  g(X»d-nature  and  grace,  —  1  have  been  suddenly  intor- 
ru|)ted  by  the  question.  Why  don't  you  write  a  few  tales  like 
Mr.  Crayon's .' 

And  so,  when  I  have  spoken  of  Afr.  Cooper,  of  his  Leather 
Stocking,  (a  character  hardly  excelled  in  modern  fiction,  if 
taken  in  its  true  order  through  the  three  novels,)  or,  generally, 
of  his  natur.dness,  of  liis  vivid  and  clear  description,  his  rapid 
action  and  revelation  of  passion,  —  I  have  been  asked,  with 
the  utmost  simplicity,  why  I  did  not  undertake  a  novel  after 
Mr.  Cooper's  manner. 

And  what,  I  have  replied,  would  Mr.  Crayon  have  brought 
to  pass,  had  he,  for  instance,  attempted  to  write  like  that  pecu- 
liar man,  Charles  Hrockden  Brown  ?  And  where  would  Mr, 
Cofjper  have  been  by  this  time,  had  he  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  Mr.  Crayon,  over  smooth  lawns,  and  by  bright,  prattling 
brooks,  or  the  little  calm-surfaced,  heaven-reflecting  lake  ? 

I  do  much  wonder  whetiier  some  people  ever  heard  of  the 

word  Idiosvncnisy.     And  I  wonder,  exclaims  Mr. ,  wlntli- 

er  they  ever  heard  of  the  word  IMnenology  ! 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others  ;  but  if  I  am  to  write 
fiction,  which  shall  have  in  it  the  ciiaracter  and  the  force  of 
truth,  it  must,  in  very  deed,  be  truth  to  me  at  the  time. 

1  have  left  out  of  the  present  volume  those  articles  in  The 
Idle  Man  which  wen;  not  from  my  own  ]>«ii. 

Separating  from  my  own  that  with  which  my  friciuls  furnish- 
ed me,  is  like  parting  with  old  ffimpanions.  "  The  Hypochon- 
driac" must  lu.'re  take  his  leave  of  liir  world  for  the  present, 
and  the  public  nmst  give  up  a  little  mon;  good  priisc,and  some 
true   po«.-lr\.      Hut  tin-   p<«lrv    froni    Mr    I'.iAaiil   lluv   uill   m>i 


150  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

lose  i  —  that  they  will  find  lying  amongst  his  other  beautiful 
and  precious  things,  in  the  work  which  he  not  long  ago  gave  to 
the  world. 

But  "  The  West  Wind,"  the  title  of  the  last  thing  which 
he  wrote  for  me,  —  I  must  part  with  that  too.  If  it  had  been 
written  purposely  to  follow  "  Paul  Felton,"  it  could  not  have 
been  more  appropriate,  it  breathed  such  a  calm  through  one, 
after  witnessing  the  strusfgles  of  that  man.  Beautiful  as  it 
is  in  itself,  it  will  never  be  the  same  gentle  air  to  me  anywhere 
else ;  nor  will  the  pines  give  out  that  same  saddening,  yet 
soothing  murmur  which  they  did  when  they  grew  by  the 
graves  of  Paul  and  Esther :  I  wish  they  were  growing  there 
still ! 

Will  my  old  friends  allow  me  to  close  with  a  word  to  those 
whom  I  hope  before  long  to  call  my  young  friends  ? 

Some,  who  were  members  of  one  or  another  of  our  many 
colleges  when  The  Idle  Man  appeared,  have  since  told  me,  that, 
could  I  have  known  of  the  interest  which  was  taken  in  it  at 
those  institutions,  and  the  feelings  it  called  out  towards  me,  I 
should  not  have  given  it  up  as  I  did.  Perhaps  I  should  not ; 
for  I  have  always  looked  with  deep  interest  upon  the  early 
forming  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  character ;  and  the  love 
of  the  young  for  me  takes  a  strong  hold  upon  my  heart.  And 
when  I  remember  what  seeds  of  affection  and  sentiment,  of 
poetry  and  all  spiritual  aspirations,  are  sown  in  the  young,  to 
germinate,  or  to  die,  as  the  sun  and  dews  may  fall  on  them, 
or  not,  I  cannot  but  feel  a  satisfaction  that  anything  of  mine 
should  have  ever  so  little  of  these  unfolding  influences  upon 
them. 

I  shall  never  forget  with  what  feeling  my  friend  Bryant,  some 
years  ago,  described  to  me  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  his 
meetina;  for  the  first  time  with  Wordsworth's  Ballads.  He 
lived,  when  quite  young,  where  but  few  works  of  poetry  were 
to  be  had,  at  a  period,  too,  when  Pope  was  still  the  great  idol 
in  the  Temple  of  Art.  He  said,  that  upon  opening  Words- 
worth, a  thousand  springs  seemed  to  gush  up  at  once  in  his 


PREFACE.  151 

heart,  and  the  face  of  nature,  of  a  sudden,  to  change  into  a 
strange  freshness  and  life.  He  had  felt  the  syini)athelic  touch 
fruni  an  according  mind,  and  you  see  how  instantly  his  powei-s 
and  affections  shot  over  the  earth  and  through  his  kind.  If  I 
could,  in  my  humble  way,  awaken  some  young  man,  of  how- 
ever infcriour  powers  to  our  delightful  poet,  to  a  sensation  in 
any  poor  degree  like  this,  I  should  bless  God  for  it  the  remain- 
der of  my  days. 

Too  many  of  the  young  of  this  time  do  need  awakening ; 
for  this  is  hardly  the  age  of  profound  philosophy,  of  lofty 
imagination,  or  of  deep  and  simple  sentiment.  But  although 
the  age  is  generally  wanting  in  these  respects,  there  are  a  few 
minds  of  a  noble  order  rising  up,  not  only  abroad,  but  even  iii 
this  land  ;  and  as  they  ascend,  I  can  see  their  intellectual  rays, 
while  I  watch  them  at  a  distance,  stretching  out  more  and 
more ;  and  ere  long  they  will  touch  the  one  the  other,  and 
make  a  common  light,  that  shall  flood  all  lands.  A  more 
spiritual  philosophy,  perhajjs,  than  man  has  before  looked  on, 
and  a  poetry  twin  with  it,  are  coming  into  life.  Yes,  a  day  of 
far-spreading  splendour  is  breaking;  the  clear  streak  of  it  is 
already  in  the  east,  and  the  earth,  even  now,  here  and  there 
touched  by  it,  and  yonder,  "  the  dawning  hills"  ! 

Why,  my  young  friends,  I  well  remember  the  time  when 
Wordsworth  —  the  great  Wordsworth  —  served  for  little  else 
than  travesty  to  the  witling,  smartness  to  the  reviewer,  mid  for 
a  sneer  to  the  fastidious  pretender  to  taste  ;  and  when,  too, 
the  philosoj)hy  of  Cole-ridge  was  held  as  little  better  than  a 
dream.  Hut  now,  he  who  cannot  relish  \V  ordsworth  is  advised 
to  betake  himself  to  the  Annuals;  and  the  man  who  is  unable 
to  enter  into  tlie  deep  things  of  Coleridge,  though  he  may  pass 
for  an  alert  dialectician,  must  no  longer  tliiid<  of  dictating  from 
the  phibjsophfr's  chair.  To  profess  to  dilfer  from  Coleridge 
may  be  safe,  but  to  profi-ss  to  hold  him  to  be  incomprehensible 
would  now  savour  less  of  a  profession  than  a  confession,  to  be 
kept  for  the  ear  of  some  gliostly  father  alone. 

To  I)nng  mv  imintentionallv   long  biter  t<j    a    close.  —  In 


152  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

sending  this  volume  into  the  world,  the  Prose  goes  forth  as  an 
elder  brother,  with  his  sister,  Poetry.  She,  it  is  true,  is  not  the 
child  of  my  youth,  yet  not  wanting,  I  hope,  in  the  feelings  of 
youth,  nor  altogether  without  sentiment  and  imagination,  and 
an  eye  for  nature,  and  a  love  of  it,  though  lacking,  I  am  sensi- 
ble, something  of  that  melody  of  voice  and  that  harmony  of 
expression  which  so  win  upon  us  unawares,  and  by  the  oppo- 
site of  which  finely  attuned  spirits  are  so  apt  to  be  pained. 

I  will  not  affect  an  indifference  which  I  do  not  feel.  I  have 
an  earnest  desire  for  the  success  of  this  volume,  and  to  that 
end,  for  a  generally  good  opinion  of  it,  although  in  estimating 
what  is  my  own,  as  well  as  what  belongs  to  others,  the  opinion 
of  the  many  is  of  less  weight  with  me  than  the  judgement  of 
the  few. 

To  be  liked  of  those  whose  hearts  and  minds  I  esteem 
would  be  unspeakable  comfort  to  me,  and  would  open  sympa- 
thies with  them  in  my  nature  which  lie  deep  in  the  immortal 
part  of  me,  and  which,  therefore,  though  beginning  in  time, 
will  doubtless  live  on  in  eternity.  To  such  hearts  and  minds 
I  now  humbly,  but  especially,  commend  myself. 


i 


TOM    THORNTON 


Ami  prudent  counsels  fled; 
And  bounteous  Fancy,  for  his  glowing  mind, 
Wrought  various  scenes,  and  all  of  glorious  kind. 

Crabbe. 

—  Remorse, 
—  ilefeated  pride, 
Prosperily  sutivertod,  niaildeniiii;  want. 
Friendship  betrnyi'd,  atTeelion  unreturnod, 
Love  with  despair,  or  grief  in  agony. 

Wordsworth. 

Or  to  the  restless  sea  and  roaring  wind 
Gave  the  strong  yearnings  of  a  ruined  mind. 

C'rabde. 


"  Why,  Mr.  Thornton,  arc  you  dreaming?"  sanfd  Mrs. 
Thornton,  trying  to  appear  easy,  and  dropping  in  her 
hip  her  work,  which  slie  had  not  set  a  stitch  to  for  the 
last  half-hour.  "  I  can't  see  to  thread  my  needle,  for 
the  wick  has  run  ii])  lill  it  looks  like  a  very  cock's  comb, 
and  th(!  fire  is  so  low  that  1  hardly  feel  the  end  of  my 
fingers.  'T  is  exceedingly  cliilly  about  the  room;  — 
pray  give  me  my  shawl,  or  I  shall  perisli." 

"  Do  as  other  wise  people  do,  my  dear  ;  look  back  a 
little,  and  you  will  find  your  shawl  on  the  bars  of  your 
chair.  As  to  the  c;ui<llt',  I  will  see  to  that;  and  if  I 
could  take  tln'  coxcoiiil)  iVoiii  our  'I'om's  head  as  easily, 
it  would  be  ecpiallv   \\i\\  lor  \our  sight.'' 


154  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  Ha !  ha  I  Now,  ]VIr,  Thornton,  you  should  n't  try  to 
be  witty  when  you  are  vexed.  You  don't  know  what 
bungling  work  angry  folks  make  at  wit." 

"  True,  my  dear,  —  much  the  same  as  fond  ones  at 
government." 

iVIi'.  Thornton  took  his  feet  down  from  the  side  of 
the  fire-place,  and  put  his  spectacles  on  his  nose,  at  the 
same  time  looking  sharply  through  them,  with  his  gray 
eyebrows  thrown  into  double  arches. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Thornton,  I  'm  glad  you  're  at 
home  again ;  for  you  sat  there  playing  your  spectacles 
between  your  fingers,  with  nothing  but  a  gruff  hum, 
now  and  then,  as  if  you  were  miles  ofT  in  the  woods, 
and  contriving  how  to  clear  your  wild  lands." 

"  I  have  enough  growing  \\dld  at  my  own  door  to 
see  to,  without  taking  to  the  woods,  and  harder  to  bring 
into  order  than  any  soil  my  trees  grow  upon,  however 
stubborn." 

Mrs.  Thornton  saw  that  she  could  not  rid  herself  of 
the  difficulty  by  laughing.  She  coloured  and  remained 
silent.  She  was  conscious  of  being  too  indulgent  to 
her  son ;  and  might,  perhaps,  have  been  brought  to  a 
wiser  course  towards  him,  had  not  her  husband's  im- 
patience of  her  weakness,  and  vehement  opposition  to 
her  folly,  and  a  consequent  harshness  in  his  bearing 
towards  Tom,  created  a  land  of  party  feehng  within 
her,  which,  with  a  common  sort  of  sophistry,  she  re- 
solved wholly  into  pity  for  her  child.  This  was  a  bad 
situation  for  the  boy,  for  the  weakness  of  his  mother's 
conduct  was  easily  perceived  by  him,  and  looked  upon 
with  a  little  of  contempt,  at  the  same  time  that  it  made 
for  his  convenience ;  while  his  father's  sternness,  which 
kept  him  in  check,  and  which  he  would  gladly  have 
been  rid  of,  commanded  a  qualified  respect.     This  led 


TOM    THORNTON.  155 

him  to  like  what  was  agreeable,  rather  than  what  was 
right,  and  to  lose  the  distinetioii  of  princij)le  in  sell- 
gratitieation.  And  though  all  sellishness  hardens  the 
heart,  there  is  no  kind  of  it  whicli  so  hardens  it  as  a 
contempt  for  those  who  love  us,  and  are  fondly,  though 
unwisely,  contributing  to  oiu'  pleasures.  To  hate  our 
enemies  is  not  so  bad  as  to  despise  our  friends.  The 
cold,  hard  triumph  of  prosperity  is  a  worse  sin  than 
that  which  eats  into  us  in  the  rancour  of  adversity ;  — 
and  it  is  more  deceptive  too ;  for  good  fortune  has 
something  joyous  in  it,  even  to  the  morose,  who  often- 
times mistake  their  gladness  for  a  general  good-will, 
while  they  play  with  the  miseries  of  some,  only  to 
make  others  laugh.  Even  vehement  and  inconsiderate 
tempers,  who  take  fire  as  quickly  in  another's  cause 
as  in  their  own,  lose  their  generosity  where  too  much 
is  ministered  to  their  will;  and  what  was  only  a 
warm  resentment  of  another's  wrong  may  come  to 
be  nothing  else  but  a  feeling  of  power  and  a  love  of 
victory. 

-Air.  Thornton  saw  the  confused  expression  in  liis 
wife's  face,  and  his  sharp,  sudden  look  relaxed  into  one 
of  mild  and  melancholy  reproach,  while  she  sat  prick- 
ing lier  finger,  as  she  tried  to  seem  intent  upon  hurry- 
ing on  her  work.  He  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  con- 
tinued looking  at  it  some  time,  taking  an  uneasy  kind 
of  delight  in  seeing  the  minute-hand  go  forward,  and 
in  wishing  it  later. 

"  It  is  not  very  late,  I  hope,  Mr.  Thornton." 

"  O,  no,  —  but  a  little  past  one.  A  very  reasonable 
hour  for  a  boy  to  be  out,  and  at  a  cockfight,  too." 

"But,  Mr.  Thornton,  had  you  heard  how  earnestly 
In-  importuned  rnc,  you  would  not  wonder  al  my  giving 
him  leave.     He  jiromised  1i>  id  urn  early.     Hut  boys, 


156 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


you  know,  never  think  of  time  when  about  their  amuse- 
ments." 

"  It  is  not  of  much  consequence  that  they  should, 
when  their  amusements  are  so  humane  and  innocent. 
A  cockpit  must  be  an  excellent  school  for  a  lad  of 
Tom's  mild  disposition." 

Some  couples  have  particular  points  of  union,  but 
more  have  those  of  disagreement;  and  from  the  fre- 
quency with  which  both  return  to  their  several  kinds, 
it  would  be  hard  to  tell  which  affords  the  most  pleasure. 

There  was  but  one  subject  on  which  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  were  at  odds  with  each  other,  but  to  make 
up  for  the  want  of  more,  it  was  one  of  very  frequent 
occurrence ;  and  had  not  Tom  suddenly  made  his  ap- 
pearance, there  is  no  knowing  how  far  the  bitter  taunt- 
ing of  the  old  gentleman  would  have  gone. 

Tom  entered  the  room,  his  crisp,  black  hau  off  his 
forehead,  his  swarthy  complexion  flushed  with  excite- 
ment from  the  conflict  he  had  just  witnessed,  his 
mouth  firmly  set,  his  nostrils  expanded,  and  his  eye 
fiery  and  dilated.  He  had  a  marked  cast  of  features, 
the  muscles  of  his  face  worked  strongly,  and  his  mo- 
tions were  hasty,  impetuous,  and  threatening.  His 
countenance  was  open  and  manly ;  and  it  seemed  to 
depend  upon  the  mere  turn  of  circumstances  whether 
he  was  to  make  a  good  or  a  bad  man.  He  was  sur- 
prised, and  a  little  abashed  for  a  moment,  at  finding 
his  father  up.  He  looked  at  his  mother,  as  if  to  say 
she  had  betrayed  him;  and  his  mother  looked  at  him 
upbraidingly,  for  brealdng  his  word  by  staying  so  late, 
and  thus  bringing  his  father's  displeasure  upon  them 
both. 

"  I  suppose  that  I  may  go  to  bed  now,  as  you  have 
seen  fit  to  return  home  at  last,  my  young  gentleman  ? 


TOM    THORNTON.  157 

And  did  you  bet  on  the  winning  cock,  or  arc  you  to 
draw  on  me  to  pay  oft'  your  debt  of  honour  ?  " 

"  I  betted  no  higher  than  I  had  money  to  pay, " 
answered  Tom,  proudly ;  "  and  I  care  not  it"  I  go  with 
an  empty  pocket  for  a  montli  to  come,  for  he  was  a 
riglit  gallant  fellow  I  lost  upon."' 

Angry  as  his  father  was,  the  careless  generosity  of 
Tom's  manner  touched  his  pride.  "  You  are  malapert. 
But  this  cjomes  of  late  hours,  and  dissipation.  We  '11 
have  no  more  of  it.  Get  you  to  bed.  Sir ;  and  look  to 
it  that  you  do  not  gaft'  the  old  rooster,  —  I  '11  have  no 
l)lood  spilt  on  my  grounds.'^ 

"  Never,  without  your  leave,  Sir,"  said  Tom,  his 
mouth  drawing  into  a  smile  at  his  father's  simplicity. 
And,  glad  to  be  let  oft"  so  easily,  he  went  to  bed,  laugh- 
ing at  the  thouglit  of  their  old  dunghill,  blind  of  one 
eye,  dying  game.  "  They  must  have  been  but  simple 
lads  in  my  father's  day,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  as  he 
blew  out  his  candle,  and  threw  himself  into  bed  to 
dream  over  the  fight. 

"  Tom  is  not  so  bad  a  boy,  neither,"  said  Mr.  Tiiorn- 
ton,  adjusting  the  fender  before  the  fire,  and  preparing 
to  go  to  bed.  "  And  I  see  not  why  he  should  not  make 
a  pro])er  man  enough,  were  there  no  one  to  take  all  the 
pains  in  tlie  world  to  spoil  him." 

In  a  few  minutes  all  was  ([uiet  in  the  house. 

Tom  liad  now  reached  that  age,  in  which  it  is  pretty 
well  determined  wiiether  the  passions  are  to  be;  oiu- 
ma.sters  or  servants.  He  had  never  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment of  checking  his;  and  if  they  wen-  less  violent 
at  one  time  than  at  another,  it  was  because  he  was 
swayed  for  the  instant  by  some  gender  impulse,  and 
not  that  he  was  restrained  by  j)riMcipie.  His  father's 
late  mild  treatmenl  of  liim  seemed  to  have  a  softening 

VOL.    I.  I  I 


158  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

effect  upon  his  disposition,  and  for  a  few  days  lie  ap- 
peared at  rest,  and  free  from  starts  of  passion.  But 
some  little  incidents  soon  brought  back  his  father's 
severity  of  manner,  and  this  the  son's  spirit  of  opposi- 
tion, the  mother's  weakness  serving  aU  the  while  as  a 
temptation  to  his  love  of  power.  Every  day  occa- 
sioned a  fresh  difficulty.  Tom  decided  all  the  disputes 
in  the  school,  it  mattered  little  with  him  whether  by 
force  or  persuasion.  And  as  he  feared  no  one  living, 
and  generally  sided  with  the  weakest,  partly  from  a 
love  of  displaying  his  daring  and  prowess,  and  partly 
from  a  hatred  of  aU  tyranny  but  his  own,  he  frequently 
came  home  with  his  clothes  torn,  and  face  bloody  and 
bruised.  This,  however,  might  be  said  for  Tom,  —  he 
was  the  favourite  of  the  smaller  boys  ;  for  he  cared  not 
to  domineer  where  it  showed  neither  skill  nor  courage. 
EQs  poor  mother  was  filled  with  constant  trembling  and 
alarm,  which  served  as  a  petty  amusement  to  him ; 
and  from  the  most  violent  rage,  after  one  of  these  con- 
tests, he  often  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh  at  the  plain- 
tive sound  of  his  mother's  lament  over  him. 

Among  Tom's  other  accomplishments,  he  was  a  great 
whip.  So,  w^ithout  saying  a  word  to  any  one,  he  con- 
trived, with  the  assistance  of  a  school-fellow  as  wild 
as  himself,  to  put  a  young,  fiery  horse,  which  his  father 
had  just  purchased,  to  a  new  gig.  The  horse  was  restiff. 
Tom  grew  angry  and  whipped  him.  His  companion 
was  thrown  out  and  broke  his  arm  ;  but  Tom,  with  the 
usual  success  of  the  active  and  daring,  cleared  himself 
unhurt.  The  gig,  however,  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and 
his  father's  fine  horse  ruined. 

Not  long  after  this,  and  before  his  father's  anger  had 
time  to  cool,  Tom,  with  some  of  his  playmates,  was 
concerned  in  breaking  the  windows  of  a  miserly  neigh- 


TOM    THORNTON.  159 

bom",  that  they  niiglit  make  him  loosen  his  purse- 
strings.  One  of  the  smallest  boys  was  detected,  and, 
upon  refusing  to  give  information  of  the  rest,  the  mas- 
TtT  began  Hogging  him  severely.  Tom  would  have 
taken  the  wiiipping  himself,  l)ut  he  knew  this  Avould 
not  save  the  lad,  unless  he  made  the  others  known. 
Besides,  he  had  an  utter  detestation  of  all  acts  which 
are  held  by  high-spirited  schoolboys  to  be  mean  or 
cowardly,  and  could  not  brook  that  the  little  fellow 
should  be  punished  for  not  turning  traitor.  Tom  sprang 
upon  his  seat,  and  crying  out,  "  A  rescue !  "  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  other  boys  ;  and  in  an  instant  the  master 
was  brought  to  the  floor.  Lying  upon  one's  back  is 
not  a  favourable  posture  for  dignity,  —  certainly  not  in 
a  schoolmaster.  Though  a  good  deal  intimidated,  the 
master  frowned,  and  stormed,  and  threatened  ;  but  Tom 
was  not  to  be  frightened  at  words  and  looks.  Indeed, 
the  ludicrous  situation  of  liis  instructer,  the  novelty  of 
it,  and  his  mock  authoritative  manner,  put  Tom  into 
such  a  fit  of  laughter,  that  he  could  hardly  utter  his 
conditions  of  release.  There  was  nothing  but  shout- 
ing and  uproar  tln'ough  the  school ;  and  it  was  not  till 
a  promise  of  full  pardon  to  all  concerned  that  the  mas- 
ter was  allowed  to  rise. 

Tom  knew  that  this  would  end  his  schoolboy  days, 
and  so  far  he  was  not  sorry  for  what  had  happened ; 
for  he  longed  to  be  free  and  abroad  amid  the  adven- 
tures of  the  world.  "  Let  it  all  go,"  said  he,  walking 
forward  with  a  full  swing ;  "  if  I  have  been  wild  and 
headstrojig,  I  hav(!  not  altogether  wasted  my  time. 
And  I'll  so  better  my  instruction,  that  I  will  one  day 
be  among  men  what  I  have  been  among  boys.  And 
who  will  dare  say  nay  to  Tom  'J'hornton  ?  " 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  he  slackened  his 


160 


THE  IDLE    MAN. 


pace,  and  forgetting  his  views  of  power,  began  to  con- 
sider how  he  should  meet  his  father. 

"  It  will  be  aU  out  in  less  than  four-and-twenty  hours, 
and  I  had  better  have  the  merit  of  telling  it  myself. 
This  wiU  go  some  way  towards  my  pardon,  for  the 
old  man,  with  all  his  severity,  likes  openness ;  —  it  has 
saved  me  many  a  whipping  when  I  was  younger. 
So,  thou  almost  only  virtue  I  possess,  let  me  make  the 
most  of  thee  while  thou  stickest  by  me." 

He  was,  indeed,  a  forthright  lad,  not  because  he  con- 
sidered openness  a  duty,  but  because  it  agreed  with 
the  vehemence  and  daring  of  his  character,  and  grati- 
fied his  pride. 

With  all  his  self-reliance,  his  heart  beat  quick  as  he 
drew  near  the  door.  He  thought  of  his  father's  strict 
notions  of  government,  his  own  numerous  offences  of 
late,  the  sternness  and  quickness  of  his  father's  temper, 
and  the  violence  and  obstinacy  of  his  own ;  and  he 
could  not  but  dread  the  consequences  of  the  meeting. 

"  Why  should  I  stand  like  a  coward,  arguing  the 
matter  witli  myself,  when  I  know  well  enough  that 
there  is  but  one  way  of  acting  ?  The  sooner  begun, 
the  sooner  over  ;  the  worst  has  an  end." 

So  saying,  he  threw  open  the  door,  and  went  directly 
to  his  father's  room.  Mr.  Thornton  was  not  there. 
He  passed  as  hastily  from  one  room  to  another  as  if 
in  pursuit  of  some  one  who  was  trying  to  escape  him, 
inquiring  quickly  for  his  father  of  everybody  he  met. 
He  at  last  went  to  his  mother's  chamber,  and  knock- 
ing, but  scarcely  waiting  for  an  answer,  entered,  and 
asked  abruptly,  "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Who,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Dear  me  no  dears ;  I  'm  not  in  a  humour  for  it. 
Where  's  my  father  ?  " 


TO.M    THORNTON.  RU 

"  Your  father,  child!  He  's  gone  to  The  vihage.  But 
what's  the  matter?  Something  dreadful,  I'm  sun'. 
O  Thomas,  you  make  my  life  miserable  I" 

''Humph I''  said  Tom,  drawing  his  lips  close  to- 
gether. "  Gone  to  the  village  I  Then  every  old  woman 
there  has  blabbed  it  over  and  over  again  in  his  ears, 
and  with  a  thousand  lies  tagged  to  it,  and  as  many 
malicious  condolences  about  his  hot-headed  son.  Noth- 
ing puts  my  father  into  such  a  fury  as  the  whining  of 
these  old  crones.  Ah,  I  see  the  jig  's  up,  and  all  my 
honesty  ends  in  nothing.  Well,  it  can't  be  helped  ;  — 
't  is  coming." 

"  What  can't  be  helped  ?  Why  don't  you  speak  to 
me,  Thomas,  and  tell  me  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Ah  I    mother,  is  it  you  ?  —  I  was  thinking  about 

What 's  the  matter,  ask  you  ?     Matter  enough, 

truly.     There  's  young  Star  sold  for  a  lame  cart-horse, 

—  a  gallant,  fiery  steed  you  were,  too,  Star  I  —  the  gay, 
fiubished  gig  dashed  into  as  many  fragments  as  your 
chandelier,  and  gone  with  Pharaoh's  chariot-wheels,  for 
aught  I  know.  Mother,  I  've  been  in  too  great  a  hurry, 
ever  since,  to  ask  your  pardon  for  running  foul  your 
chandelier  yesterday.  But  my  father  came  in  so  close 
upon  me,  he  liked  to  have  cut  his  foot  with  the  pieces. 
There  's  another  mark  to  my  list  of  sins.  Then  there  's 
the  breaking  of  Jack's  head  for  not  minding  me  instead 
of  my  father,  and  a  score  more  of  worse  things,  and  all 
within  these  six  days." 

"  ()  Thomas,  Thomas,  what  will  become  of  us?" 
"  Become;  of  vs  ?     Why,  't  is   none  of  your  doings, 
Miolher.      Yon  never  liroke  the  gig,  nor  lamed  Star,  nor 
cudgelled  .Tack,  that  I  know  of      Hut  reserve  your  grief 
awhile,  for  the  worst  is  Ix'hind." 

"Worst,    Tliom;isI      I    >liall    lose    mv   senses,     \iini 


162  THE  IDLE    MAN. 

father  mutters  about  you  in  his  very  sleep  ;  and  he  has 
threatened  of  late  to  send  you  out  of  the  house,  if  you 
go  on  at  such  a  rate." 

"  I  know  it.  Yet  I  hardly  think  he  would  turn  me 
adrift.  What  if  he  does  ?  There  is  room  enough ; 
and,  come  fair  or  foul,  I  've  a  ready  hand  and  a  stout 
heart." 

"  You  wUl  certainly  kill  your  unhappy  mother,  if  you 
talk  so.  Your  father  says  your  conduct  is  all  owing 
to  my  indulgence ;  and  you  have  no  gratitude  or  pity 
for  me." 

"  Faith,  mother,  I  fear  father  has  the  right  on 't. 
Come,  come,  don't  make  yoiu'self  miserable  about 
such  an  overgrown  boy  as  I  am,  and  I  '11  tell  my  story. 
Mother,  I  'm  a  rebel  and  an  outlaw ;  and  the  worst 
of  it  is,  my  father's  notions  of  government  are  as  high 
as  the  Grand  Turk's.  Yes,  we  had  old  pedagogue  flat 
on  his  back ;  and  he  could  no  more  turn  over  than  a 
turtle.  And  such  a  sprawhng  as  he  made  of  it !  And 
when  we  let  him  up,  could  you  but  have  seen  how  he 
trembled,  every  joint  of  him,  —  knees  and  elbows!" 

Here  Tom  fell  a  laughing,  and  his  mother  burst  into 
tears.  Though  her  weak  fondness  for  her  son  took 
away  from  him  nearly  all  respect  for  his  mother,  still 
Tom  loved  her,  and  often  blamed  himself  severely  that 
he  had  given  her  so  much  trouble,  and  so  often  brought 
upon  her  his  father's  displeasure.  His  heart  was  touch- 
ed ;  and  taking  her  hand,  he  asked  forgiveness  for  tri- 
fling with  her  feelings.  "  Do  not  think  that  it  is  be- 
cause I  am  careless  of  what  concerns  you.  You  see 
I  play  the  fool  with  my  own  troubles,  and  I  certainly 
am  not  indifferent  about  them." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  my  son  !  But  you  will  meet  with 
nothing  except  evil  in  life,  if  you  do  not  learn  prudence 


TOM    TIIOKNTON.  1G3 

and  i<elf-control.  You  have  a  good  heart,  I  believe ; 
yt'T  you  aro  giving  constant  pain  and  anxiety  to  your 
be.st  Iriend.-^,  and  must,  so  long  as  your  passions  are 
your  masters,  and  you  so  violent  and  changing." 

Her  son  promised  to  set  seriously  about  subduing 
his  passions,  and  letting  liis  reason  have  more  sway. 

As  Tom  conjectured,  JNIr.  Thornton  had  heard  the 
whole  story,  and  with  the  usual  country-village  col- 
ouring. It  was  too  much  for  his  irascible  temper, 
goaded,  as  it  had  been  of  late,  by  iiis  son's  inconsider- 
ate conduct.  He  set  olF  for  home  in  great  \vratli,  hur- 
rying over  Tonvs  misdeeds  so  rapidly  and  confusedly, 
that  a  dozen  nuiltiplied  and  changed  places  with  such 
swiftness,  they  showed  like  a  thousand.  With  his  mind 
thus  tilled  with  blind  rage,  and  his  body  fevered  with 
the  speed  at  which  he  walked,  he  entered  the  house, 
a  very  unfit  subject  for  Tom  to  begin  the  exercise  of 
his  new  resolutions  upon. 

Tom  had  seen  his  father  coming  along  the  road,  and 
had  gone  to  his  room,  waiting  his  arrival,  with  a  de- 
termination to  relate  the  whole  aiiair,  confess  his  errour 
in  this  and  other  instances,  make  known  his  resolution 
to  change  his  conduct,  and  humbly  ask  forgiveness  for 
the  past,  and  all  in  a  dutiful  and  composed  manner. 

Mr.  Thornton  seized  the  latch,  but  with  a  hand  so 
shaking  with  rage  that  it  did  not  rise  at  his  touch. 
Heated  and  imj^atient  as  he  was,  the  least  thing  was 
(Miough  to  make  him  furious;  he  thrust  his  foot  against 
the  door  :  it  started  the  catch,  and  sent  it  iialf  across 
the  room.  Tlie  passing  sense  of  shaiue  at  his  uncon- 
trolled passion  only  increased  his  anger;  and  seeing 
his  son  standing  in  thf;  middle  of  the  room,  — "  Block- 
head," li«'  died,  darting  forward,  till,  his  {'wa'  almost 
touching  Tom'-,  his  clinched  fists  pressed  convulsively 


164 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


against  his  thighs,  — "  blockhead,  dare  you  fasten  me 
out  of  my  own  room  ?  " 

The  unexpected  violence  of  Mr.  Thornton's  manner 
rather  surprised  than  irritated  Tom,  and  he  looked  at 
his  father  with  a  composed  and  slightly  contemptuous 
cast  of  expression,  without  making  any  reply. 

Mr.  Thornton  was  sensible  how  groundless  his  charge 
was,  the  instant  he  uttered  it.  He  was  for  a  moment 
discomposed,  too,  by  his  son's  calm  and  haughty  bear- 
ing ;  and  probably  would  have  been  glad  had  Tom  re- 
plied in  the  manner  he  sometimes  did. 

"  Do  you  stand  there  to  insult  me,  Su*  ?  You  may 
well  hold  your  peace,  for  what  could  you  say  to  your 
infamous  and  rebellious  conduct  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  fastening  your  door.  Sir  ?  "  asked 
Tom. 

"  Door,  door,  puppy  !  Look  you,  its  hinges  shall  rust 
off  ere  you  shall  open  it  again,  unless  you  mend 
yom*  life." 

"  Say  but  the  word.  Sir,  and  you  need  not  be  at  the 
trouble  of  fastening." 

"  You  're  a  cold-blooded,  thankless  wretch,"  stormed 
out  his  father.  "  You  were  born  to  be  a  curse  to  me, 
instead  of  a  blessing,  and  you  joy  in  it.  You  lead  a 
life  of  violence  and  riot,  and  will  live  and  die  a  disgrace 
to  your  family." 

"'  I  wUl  do  something  to  give  it  a  name,"  said  Tom, 
"  if  I  hang  for  it.  I  '11  not  lead  a  milksop  life  of  it,  to  be 
called  respectable  by  old  women,  young  sycophants, 
and  money-lenders." 

"  A  name,  indeed !  You  '11  go  marked  like  Cain, 
and  w^ith  your  hand  against  every  man,  and  every 
man's  hand  against  you;  and  hang  you  will,  that's 
past  doubt,  unless  you  mend." 


TOM    THORNTON.  U)0 

"  Better  that,  than  without  a  name.  And  be  a  halter 
my  destiny,"  said  he,  looking  down  upon  his  manly 
fignre  with  some  complacency  ;  "  I  shall  become  a  cart 
as  well  as  another  man." 

'•Fop!"  snapped  out  his  father,  enraged  at  Tom's 
contemptuous,  cool  trilling. 

"  I  'm  no  fop.  If  I  'm  a  w^ell-made  fellow,  I  thank 
God  for  it ;  and  where  's  the  harm  of  that  ?  " 

"  Do  you  repeat  my  words,  Sir,  and  trifle  with  your 
Maker,  in  my  presence,  and  set  all  laws,  divine  and 
human,  at  defiance  ?  Is 't  not  enough  to  break  and 
destroy  what 's  mine,  and  keep  all  at  home  in  an  up- 
roar, but  you  must  go  a])road,  too,  to  disgrace  me,  and 
make  yourself  the  hate  and  dread  of  everybody  by  your 
violence  and  rebellion  ?  But  you  shall  be  humbled, 
and  that  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world.  We  '11  have  that 
proud  spirit  of  yours  down,  before  it  rides  over  any 
more  necks.  Yes,  my  lad,  it  is  settled.  The  whole 
school,  wdth  you  at  their  head,  (for  you  shall  be  their 
leader  in  this,  as  you  have  been  in  everything  else,) 
shall  to-morrow  morning  down  on  their  knees  before 
the  master,  and  ask  his  pardon." 

"  I !  on  my  knees  to  that  shadow  of  a  man  I  No,  in 
faith,  I  'd  stand  as  straight  and  stiff  before  him  as  a 
drill-sergeant,  till  my  legs  failed,  ere  I  'd  nod  my  head 
to  him.  What!  he  that  would  whip  all  faith  and 
honour  out  of  a  boy,  till  he  left  a  soul  in  him  no  bigger 
than  his  own  !  I  '11  bow  to  none  but  to  Him  that  made 
me,  so  h«'lp " 

"  Hold,  hold,"  said  the  father  (whose  passions  were 
now  at  their  utmost) ;  "  have  a  care  before  you  take  an 
oath  on  't ;  for,  as  I  live,  you  're  no  longer  son  of  mine 
unless  you  do  it." 

"  Tiicn  1  'm  my  own  master,  and  I  he  ground  I  stand 


166  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

on  is  my  own ;  for,  by  my  right  hand,  I  '11  ask  forgive- 
ness of  no  man  living,"  said  Tom,  tm-ning  resolutely 
away  from  his  father,  as  if  all  was  ended. 

"  Mad  boy ! "  called  out  his  father,  "  hear  me  now  for 
the  last  time ;  for  unless  you  this  instant  promise  to 
obey,  I  '11  never  set  eyes  on  you  again ;  —  and  leave 
this  house  you  shall  by  to-morrow's  light." 

"  'T  is  a  bright  night,"  said  Tom,  looking  composedly 
out  of  the  window,  "  and  the  stars  will  serve  as  well. 
Nor  will  I  eat  or  sleep  where  I  am  not  welcome,"  he 
added,  taking  up  his  hat  and  walking  deliberately  out 
of  the  room. 

His  determined  manner  at  once  satisfied  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton that  Tom  would  act  up  to  what  he  had  said ;  and 
a  father's  feelings  for  the  moment  took  possession  of 
him,  with  compunction  for  the  violence  which  had 
driven  his  son  from  him.  He  went  toward  the  door 
to  call  Tom  back,  but  he  was  already  out  of  hearing. 
"  Wilful  and  headstrong  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  turning 
back  and  shutting  the  door,  \vith  a  feeling  of  disap- 
pointment, "  time  and  suffering  alone  must  cure  you." 
Thus  for  the  moment  he  eased  his  conscience,  and 
was  saved  the  sacrifice  of  his  pride. 

Tom  was  passing  through  the  hall  with  a  hasty  step, 
and  had  nearly  reached  the  outer  door,  when  the  light 
caught  his  eye,  as  it  shone  from  under  the  door  of  the 
parlom*.  The  sight  recalled  him  to  himself,  and  stirred 
every  home  feeling  within  him.  He  heard  his  mother's 
voice  as  she  was  reading  aloud.  The  blood  throbbed 
to  his  throat.  The  thought  that  she  should  be  so  ti'an- 
quil,  and  so  unconscious  of  the  affliction  that  was 
ready  to  break  upon  her,  cut  him  to  the  heart.  If  she 
had  been  a  victim  which  he  was  about  to  sacrifice,  he 
could  not  have  felt  more  pain.     He  listened  a  moment. 


TOM    THORNTON.  IG7 

"  I  must  not  go  without  seeing  her,  without  taking  her 
blessing  with  me,  —  else  I  shall  go  accursed'."'  He 
laid  his  hand  uixin  the  latch  and  raised  it  a  little : 
his  mother  still  read  on. 

With  all  his  violence  and  rudeness,  Tom  had  a 
strong  affection  for  his  mother.  His  feelings,  too,  were 
now  softened ;  for  he  was  humbled  and  pained  at  re- 
flecting upon  the  unjust  violence  of  a  father,  who, 
though  of  a  stern  and  hasty  temper,  he  had  heretofore 
respected.  To  a  mind  not  wholly  selfish,  the  faults  of 
a  parent  are  almost  as  mortifying  and  wounding  as 
jts  own  ;  and  Tom  would  have  given  the  world,  if  the 
wrong  had  now  been  in  himself  alone.  "  I  dare  not 
trust  myself  to  see  my  mother  now.  She  would  make 
a  very  child  of  me  ;  my  father  would  be  sued,  too,  and 
then  what  would  become  of  all  my  resolutions  and 
decision?  —  Pshaw^I"  said  he,  dashing  away  a  tear 
with  t)nc  hand,  as  the  other  dropped  from  the  latch ; 
"is  this  the  way  for  one  like  me  to  begin  the  world?" 

He  walked  slowly  out  of  the  house,  drew  the  door 
to  gently  after  him,  and  passed  down  the  yard,  uncon- 
scious that  he  was  moving  forward,  till  he  reached  the 
gate.  H(^  opened  it  mechanically,  then,  leaning  over 
it,  looked  toward  his  home.  "'Tis  an  ill  parting  with 
you  this,"  said  he;  "yet  I  leave  you  iioi  in  anger. 
Many  a  blessing  I  have  had,  and  many  a  happy  time 
of  it,  and  many  more  there  might  have  been  for  me, 
had  I  not  been  a  froward  child.  There  are  few  such  to 
come,  I  fear."  He  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
house,  whih'  his  iiiiiid  wandered  over  the  ])ast,  and 
what  awaited  him.  The;  liglit  Mushed  out  cheerfully 
uj)on  the  trees  near  the  window,  sum  I  Ihfir  leaves 
twinkh'rl  l)ri;,ditly  in  it.  Ifr  cast  his  eyes  round.  The 
earth  looked  gloomy  in  th»'  darkness,  for  no  lights  were 


168 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


to  be  seen  but  those  of  the  distant  stars.  "  I  said  that 
ye  would  serve  me,"  said  he,  looking  upward,  "  and  if 
I  spoke  in  anger.  Heaven  forgive  me  for  it.  I  must  be 
on  my  way,  and  must  go  like  a  man." 

In  the  midst  of  the  most  violent  passions,  it  is  curi- 
ous to  see  how  quickly  and  with  what  care  the  mind 
will  sometimes  lay  its  plans  for  future  resources.  Tom 
Thornton,  when  much  younger  than  at  this  time,  had 
been  made  a  pet,  that  he  might  be  used  as  an  instru- 
ment, by  a  lad  older  than  himself,  of  the  name  of  Isaac 
Beckford.  Isaac  plotted  most  of  the  mischief  done  at 
school,  and  applauded  Tom  for  his  sagacity  and  in- 
trepidity in  the  execution  of  it,  taking  care  not  to  de- 
mand any  praise  for  his  own  ingenious  contrivances. 
In  this  way  they  became  necessary  to  each  other ;  and 
after  Isaac  left  school  to  reside  in  the  city  with  an 
uncle  of  the  same  name,  whose  ward  he  was,  he  wrote 
frequently  to  Tom,  urging  him  to  come  to  town,  and 
share  with  him  in  the  amusements  in  which  a  large 
fortune  would  soon  enable  him  to  indulge.  Tom  now 
resolved  to  make  his  way  to  the  city,  and  have  the 
benefit  of  his  friend's  influence  to  put  himself  in  a  sit- 
uation to  rise  in  the  world. 

Having  made  up  his  mind,  though  it  was  somewhat 
of  a  journey  on  foot  to  the  city,  and  he  ignorant  of  the 
way,  (the  village  in  which  he  resided  lying  far  off  from 
any  gi'cat  road,)  Tom  marched  forward  as  confidently 
as  if  the  church  spnes  of  the  town  had  been  in  sight. 
The  character  of  adventure,  freedom,  and  novelty  in 
his  condition,  the  sharp,  clear  night-air,  and  the  crowd 
and  glitter  of  the  stars  in  the  sky,  gave  an  expanse  and 
a  vivid  action  to  his  mind,  and  roused  up  the  hopeful 
spirit  which,  for  a  time,  had  slept  witliin  him.  "  Come, 
come,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  you  're  a  tall  boy,  Tom, 


TOM    THORNTON'.  169 

better  fitted  to  shoukler  your  way  throngh  the  world 
than  delve  Greek  under  a  starveUng  pedant." 

So  intent  was  he  upon  his  schemes,  that  he  took 
little  heed  to  the  by-road  he  was  ti-avelling,  and  had 
walked  till  about  midnight  without  being  conscious  of 
time  or  fatigue.  The  stillness  about  him  at  last  cbcw 
his  attention,  and,  looking  round,  he  found  himself  on 
the  top  of  a  small  hill,  in  the  midst  of  a  country,  bar- 
ren, broken  into  knolls,  and  covered,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  with  large,  loose  stones.  An  old  tree,  at 
a  distance,  was  all  that  showed  life  had  been  there ; 
and  that,  with  its  sharp,  scraggy,  and  barkless  gray 
branches  shooting  out  uncouthly  towards  the  sky, 
looked  like  a  thing  accursed.  "  A  hard  and  lonely  life 
you  must  have  had  of  it  here,"  said  Tom,  "  and  been 
sadly  off  for  music,  if  you  were  at  all  particular  about 
it ;  for  I  doubt  whether  any  sound  has  been  heard  for 
a  long  time  in  your  branches,  but  that  of  the  ravens 
and  the  heavy  winds.  It  is  as  deadly  still  all  around 
here  as  the  sky ;  I  wish  I  could  say  it  looked  as  well. 
What  a  pity  that  gibbets  are  out  of  fashion,  for  this 
would  be  a  choice  place  for  one ;  and  could  I  but  hear 
the  creaking  of  it,  I  should  not  have  my  ears  so  palsied 
with  this  dreadful  silence.  —  There  winds  a  yeUow  cart- 
track  from  hill  to  hill,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  It  is  to  the 
left,  and  omens  ill.  I'll  take  this,  to  the  right, — 
whether  to  the  world's  end  or  not,  time  will  tell." 

And  forward  he  went.  He  at  last  grew  weary;  tmd, 
as  his  pace  slackened,  he  began  to  think  of  his  home, 
his  father  and  mother,  and  liis  many  offences.  His 
conscience  was  touched,  and  he  felt  as  if  undeserving 
the  light  of  tlie  f|iiiet  heavens  that  shone  on  him. 
"  Can  one  prosper  as  he  goes,  when  his  father's  anger 
and  mother's  grief  follow  liim?"      liis  heart  began  to 

vol..    I.  i'^) 


170  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

fail,  and  a  thought  passed  him  of  finding  his  way  back 
again.  "  What,  and  have  my  father  taunt  me,  and  call 
me  a  lad  of  mettle  ?  And  how  like  a  whipped  dog  I 
should  look,  crawling  up  the  yard  !  And  then  that  forked 
master,  and  his  pardon  I "  cried  Tom,  clinching  his  fists 
tm  the  nails  nearly  brought  blood,  and  muttering  a 
curse  between  his  teeth,  as  the  tears  started  to  his  eyes, 
part  in  grief  and  part  in  rage.  "  Would  that  I  had 
you  in  my  grapple  once  more,  you  soulless  wretch, 
and  you  should  never  make  mischief  between  men 
again,  —  you  mere  thing !  What,  return  to  all  that ! 
No,  in  faith,  I  'd  sooner  be  thrown  out  here  like  a  dead 
dog,  and  lie  till  the  bones  in  this  body  were  as  bare 
and  white  as  these  stones,  ere  I  'd  go  back  so." 

He  travelled  on,  with  a  loose,  irregular  step.  Sus- 
taining and  hopeful  feelings  had  left  him,  and  melan- 
choly and  self-accusing  thoughts  were  passing  in  his 
soul ;  yet  his  mind  was  made  up,  and  supported  by  a 
dogged  obstinacy.  "  There  will  be  no  end  to  this 
track,  as  I  see.  It  winds  round  and  over  these  hundred 
hnis,  as  if  it  were  delighted  at  getting  into  so  pleasant 
a  country."  He  continued  his  route.  "  Must  my  voice 
lose  itself  for  ever  in  the  soHtude  of  this  stillness  ?  Is 
there  a  doom  of  eternal  silence  on  all  things,  where  I 
go  ?     Will  nothing  speak  to  me  ?  " 

He  presently  heard  a  rumbling  sound,  as  if  in  the 
earth  under  his  feet.  He  started,  but  recovering  him- 
self, walked  on.  It  increased  to  something  like  a  low 
growl,  and  seemed  to  spread  underneath  the  hills  and 
through  the  hollows ;  and  the  earth  jarred.  "  Does 
Nature  make  experiments  with  her  earthquakes  in  this 
out-of-the-way  place,  before  she  overturns  cities  with 
them  ?  "  said  he,  with  a  bitter  scoff,  feeling  how  little 
he  cared  at  the  moment  for  what  might  happen.     As 


TOM    THORXTON.  171 

be  came  round  a  hill,  the  sound  opened  distmctly  upon 
him,  sending  up  its  roar  into  the  air;  and  raising  his 
eyes,  he  saw  at  a  distance  a  tall,  giant  pile,  looking 
bk\ck  against  the  sky.  "  So  it  turns  out  to  be  nothing 
but  a  warerfall  I  And  why  cannot  I  be  fooled  again, 
and  take  that  clumsy  factory  for  the  huge  castle  of  some 
big,  hairy  manslayer  and  violator  of  damsels?  What! 
shall  I  be  downhearted  now  in  my  need,  —  T,  who  have 
carried  a  confident  brow  and  a  firm  breast  against  what- 
ever opposed  me!  It  must  be  that  I  need  food,  else 
how  could  I  be  so  melancholy  ?  I  '11  have  that,  and 
sleep  too,  before  long,  and  a  fresh  body  and  bright  day 
to  start  with  to-morrow." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  way  tow^ard  the  building. 
The  path  led  him  to  the  stream,  just  above  the  fall. 
It  lay  still  and  glassy  to  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice, 
down  which  it  flung  itself,  roaring  and  foaming.  The 
trees  and  bushes  iumg  lightly  over  it,  and  the  stars 
looked  as  thick  in  its  depths  as  in  the  sky  above  him. 
He  was  about  resting  himself  upon  a  stone ;  but,  turn- 
ing, he  saw  it  was  a  gravestone.  "  It  is  a  holy  thing," 
said  he,  "  and  I  will  rest  myself  elsewhere."  lie  looked 
round,  —  there  was  not  another  grave  in  sight.  "  What ! 
all  alon^?  No  companions  in  death?  Though  we 
hold  not  communion  with  each  other  in  the  grave,  yet 
there  is  something  awful  in  the  thought  of  being  laid 
in  the  ground  away  from  the  dwellings  of  all  the  liv- 
ing, and  not  even  the  dead  by  our  side.  But  thou  hast 
chosen  thy  habitation  well;  for  this  stream  shall  sing 
a  sweeter  and  longer  dirge  by  thee,  than  ever  went  up 
from  man  ;  yet  this  shall  one  day  be  still,  and  its  waters 
be  dried  up ;  but  the  spirit  that  was  in  thee  shall  live 
with  God." 

He  passed  along  the  race-way.     The  water  had  left 


172  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

it ;  and  the  grass  was  gi'owing  here  and  there,  in  little 
clumps,  in  its  gravelly  bottom.  Its  planks  and  timbers, 
forced  up,  forked  out  like  a  wreck ;  and  the  huge  wheel, 
which  had  parted  from  its  axle,  lay  broken  and  aslant 
the  chasm.  He  looked  toward  the  building.  The 
moon,  which  was  just  rising  behind  it,  and  shining 
through  its  windows,  made  it  appear  like  some  monster 
with  his  hundred  eyes.  Its  door-j3ath  was  overgrown, 
and  nothing  ^vas  heard  but  the  wind  blowing  through 
its  empty  length,  and  here  and  there  the  flapping  of  a 
window.  He  went  round  it,  and  saw,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, four  or  five  long,  low  buildings  standing  without 
order  upon  hillocks,  without  fence,  or  tree,  or  anything 
near  them  but  the  withered  grass.  "  One  would  have 
thought,"  said  Tom,  "  that  natm*e  had  done  enough 
without  art's  coming  in  to  help  the  desolation.  Not  a 
light  hereabouts !  This  seems  not  much  like  either  bed 
or  supper."  Going  forward,  he  looked  in  at  one  house, 
then  at  another;  but  nothing  was  to  be  seen  except 
bare  plastered  walls.  At  length  he  spied  a  light 
gleaming  through  a  crevice  of  one  of  the  houses.  The 
sight  warmed  his  heart.  He  went  to  the  door  and 
knocked. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  asked  one,  in  a  female  voice. 

"  A  friend." 

"  More  foes  than  friends  abroad  at  this  hour,  belike," 
replied  the  person  within. 

"  I  've  lost  my  way,"  said  Tom.  "  No  harm  shall 
come  to  you,  good  woman,  by  letting  in  a  traveller." 

"  You  promise  well,  and  in  an  honest  voice,"  said 
she,  as  she  opened  the  door. 

The  light  shone  upon  her,  and  Tom  saw  before 
him  a  tall,  masculine  woman,  with  sti'ong  features, 
but  with  a  serious  and  subdued  cast  of  countenance. 


TOM    THORNTON'.  17o 

"  Who  are  you,  young  man?  Out  on  no  good  in- 
tent, I  fear,  at  this  time  o'  nigiit." 

"  I  'm  Thornton  of  Thorntonville,"  said  Tom,  witii 
his  usual  readiness ;  "  an  you  've  ever  heard  of  the  place. 
I  was  going  to  the  city  afoot  for  once,  and  have  missed 
my  way." 

"  Thornton  of  Thorntonville  ?  "  said  the  old  woman, 
seeming  to  recollect  herself;  "  I  have  seen  your  father, 
then,  down  at  the  big  house  yonder.     Come  in." 

"  Your  fire  is  comforting,"  said  Tom,  sitting  down  by 
it ;  "  and  it  is  the  first  comfortable  thing  I  have  met 
with  for  some  long  hours  past.  But  you  have  made 
an  odd  choice  of  situations,  my  good  woman." 

"  The  poor  have  not  often  their  choice.  And  there 
are  things  sometimes  which  make  the  bare  heath  dearer 
to  us  than  garden  or  park." 

"  They  are  sad  things,  then,"  said  Tom. 

"  Sad  indeed,"  said  the  old  woman,  looking  into  the 
fire.  She  sat  silent  a  little  time;  then,  breathing  forth 
a  low  sigh  that  seemed  to  relieve  the  bosom  of  its  ach- 
ing, she  said  to  Tom,  "  You  must  be  over-weary,  and 
hungry  too,  if  you  are  from  Thorntonville  to-day,  for 
it  is  a  long  way;  and  you  must  have  conic  over  the 
heath  ;  and  one  may  stand  there  as  at  sea,  —  hill  after 
hill,  like  so  many  waves,  till  they  run  into  the  very  sky ; 
and  not  a  living  thing  on  one  of  them  all !  Wide  as  it 
is,  it  would  hardly  find  summer  feed  for  my  old  Jenny, 
Av^ere  it  not  for  the  circles  of  grass  round  the  gray  stones 
here  and  there." 

'•  There  is  not  much  to  be  said  for  its  looks,"  replied 
Tom.  "  I  am  not  a  little  tired,  too;  and  though  I  can- 
not well  Icll  liow  far  I  have  walked,  there  was  hardly 
a  streaked  cloud  in  the  west  when  1  \v\'t  liome." 

"It  nuisl   liavj'  hern  u  li^ht  heart  and  (juick  foot  <li;n 


174  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

brought  you  so  long  a  way  in  so  short  a  time,"  said  she, 
as  she  was  getting  ready  a  bowl  of  bread  and  milk. 
"  The  young  hurry  on,  as  if  life  would  ne'er  run  out ; 
yet  many  fall  by  the  way ;  and  I  have  lived  to  lay  those 
in  the  ground,  whom  I  looked  to  have  had  one  day  put 
the  sod  over  this  gray  head." 

Tom's  thoughts  had  gone  home,  but  the  old  woman's 
last  words  were  sounding  in  his  ears.  And  who  will 
do  that  last  office  for  me,  or  for  them  ?  thought  he.  She 
saw  the  gloom  over  Tom's  face  ;  and  believing  she  had 
caused  it,  —  "  Never  mind,"  she  said,  "  the  complainings 
of  one  whose  troubles  are  nigh  over.  Here ! "  giving 
Tom  the  bowl.  "  You  have  but  one  dish  to  supper, 
yet  that  good  of  its  kind  ;  for  't  is  short  feed  that  makes 
the  richest  milk." 

"  Whose  is  that  huge  building  to  the  left,  that  creaks 
like  a  tavern  sign  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  It  was  his  who  would  have  made  money  out  of 
moonshine.     But  he  has  gone  before  his  works." 

"  He  was  not  buried  yonder,  to  be  mocked  by  them, 
I  trust." 

"  O,  no,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "  She  that  I 
laid  there  had  no  schemes  of  grandeui*;  for  Sally 
Wentworth  was  of  a  meek  and  simple  heart." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  good  woman,  I  should  not  have 
spoken  of  this,  had  I  known  how  near  to  your  heart 
it  was  to  you." 

"  You  have  no  forgiveness  to  ask  of  me.  I  am  a 
lone  woman,  and  there  seldom  pass  here  any  who 
care  to  be  troubled  with  my  griefs  ;  and  it  is  moisture 
to  this  dried  heart  to  talk  to  one  who  can  feel  for  my 
sorrows ;  for  Sally  was  not  only  my  child,  but  God 
has  seldom  blessed  a  mother  with  such  a  child.  When 
He  took  from  me  my  husband,  I  hope  I  did  not  forget 


TOM    THORNTON.  175 

His  goodness  in  what  He  left  to  me ;  yet  He  saw  fit  to 
call  her  too,  and  His  will  be  done.  11"  grief  had  not 
killed  her,  I  could  bear  my  lot  better.  But  how  could 
it  be  other  than  it  was,  seeing  that  he  whom  she  loved 
was  so  cruelly  taken  from  her  ?  " 

'*  She  died  of  love,  then  ?  "  said  Tom.  "  It  is  a  death 
seldom  met  with,  and  bespeaks  a  rare  mind." 

"  1  know  it,"  replied  the  mother.  "  True  love  is  a 
peculiar  and  a  holy  thing ;  yet  those  are  said  to  love 
who  can  lay  one  in  the  gi'ound,  and  look  fondly  on 
another.  O,  1  have  seen  it,  and  it  has  made  me  shudder 
when  I  have  thought  of  those  in  the  grave.  Yes,  and 
many,  too,  would  scoff  at  them  that  were  true  to  the 
dead.  Yet  they  would  not,  were  it  given  them  to  know 
that  the  grief  of  such  had  that  in  it  which  was  dearer 
and  better  than  all  their  joy.  My  Sally  knew  it,  and  it 
has  made  her  a  spirit  in  heaven.  I  sit  and  think  over 
all  that  happened,  but  there  is  not  a  soul  on  earth  to 
whom  I  can  tell  it." 

"  If  you  could  think  me  worthy  of  it,  I  would  ask 
you  to  tell  me  the  story." 

"  'T  is  a  sad  one,  but  will  not  hold  you  long,  for 
Sally's  life  was  a  short  and  simple  one. 

"  She  was  to  have  been  married  to  an  industrious 
and  kind-hearted  lad.  They  knew  oiie  another  when 
quite  children,  and  grew  more  and  more  into  a  love 
for  each  other  as  they  grew  in  years.  And  if  Iheir  at- 
tachment did  not  show  the  breaks  and  passions  of 
those  which  happen  later,  it  was,  1  think,  deeper  seated, 
and  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  existence  of  both  of 
them.  Could  you  liav(;  seen  them,  as  I  have,  sitting 
on  that  very  form  where  you  now  sit,  so  gentle  and 
happy  in  e:uh  other,  you  would  not  wonder  that  it 
wrings  my  heart,  now  they  are  both  gone.     But  there 


176  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

was  a  snake  crawling  and  shining  in  the  grass.  His 
eye  fell  before  the  pvire  eye  of  Sally,  yet  he  could  not 
give  over.  I  dare  not  speak  his  name,  lest  I  should 
curse  him ;  and  Sally  forgave  him,  and  prayed  for  his 
soul  on  her  death -bed.  The  Evil- One  was  busy  at  his 
heart;  and,  thwarted  and  enraged,  and  with  his  pas- 
sions wrought  up,  he  attempted  that  by  force  which 
he  did  not  dare  speak  out  to  her.  Though  she  w^as 
of  a  gentle  make,  there  was  no  want  of  spirit  in  her ; 
and  the  wretch  liked  to  have  fallen  by  her  hand. 
'  Thank  God,'  she  has  said  to  me,  '  that  I  did  not  take 
his  life ! ' 

"  She  came  home,  shaking  and  pale  with  what  had 
happened,  and  frightened  at  the  danger  she  had  es-- 
caped.  Frank  met  her  at  the  door,  and  asked  her 
eagerly  what  was  the  matter.  She  hinted,  hastily, 
enough  for  him  to  guess  the  rest.  He  sprang  from 
the  door  with  an  oath,  —  the  first  I  ever  heard  him 
utter.  She  called  loudly  after  him,  but  he  was  out 
of  sight  in  an  instant.  She  looked  the  way  he  had 
gone,  almost  breathless.  '  I  spared  him,'  said  she,  at 
last,  '  but  he  may  not,  —  he  may  not.'  It  was  but 
a  little  while  before  Frank  came  home.  He  staggered 
into  the  house,  and  fell  back  into  a  chair.  '  What  have 
you  done  ?  Speak,  tell  me  what  you  have  done ! '  cried 
Sally.  '  You  have  not,  —  you  have  not  murdered  ?  ' 
Frank  grasped  his  throat,  to  stop  its  beating.  '  No,  no,' 
said  he,  scarcely  to  be  heard.  '  I  struck  him  but  once, 
and  he  lay  like  a  dead  man  before  me,  and  I  thought 
it  was  all  over  with  him ;  but  he  presently  opened  his 
eyes  upon  me,  and  I  dared  not  stay,  for  I  felt  the  spirit 
of  a  murderer  at  my  heart ! '  He  looked  at  the  mo- 
ment," said  the  old  woman,  "  as  if  dropping  the  very 
knife  from  his  hand. 


TOM    THORNTON.  177 

"  And  here,"  said  she,  "  the  storm  boj^an  to  gather 
fast  and  hard.  The  coward  villain  I'ound  means  to 
rai:?e  suspicions  against  Frank,  which  threw  him  ont 
of  his  cmpkiyments.  Yet  so  secret  was  he,  as  not  to 
be  suspected  of  the  deed.  The  poor  fellow  wandered 
over  these  bare  hills  day  after  day,  without  knowing 
what  to  turn  his  hands  to.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 
trouble,  the  \vretch  came  to  him,  and  begged  forgive- 
ness for  his  conduct  to  Sally.  '  I  can  forgive  you,' 
said  Frank,  'but  I  do  not  like  looking  upon  you.' 
'  That  is  not  forgiveness,'  said  he,  in  a  beseeching 
tone.  '  I  was  a  villain,  for  I  would  have  done  you 
an  injm-y  past  remedy.  And  it  was  more  than  I  de- 
served, that  you  should  have  spared  my  life  when  I 
was  down.  I  have  not  had  a  quiet  rest  since  that 
tiiue,  and  never  shall,  if  you  do  not  sufier  me  to  do 
sometliing  to  make  amends.'  '  The  best  amends,'  said 
Frank,  '  will  be  a  better  life  in  you.'  '  I  know  it,'  he 
answered,  '  and  I  hope  it  will  be  so,  if  remorse  can 
give  it.  But  you,  too,  must  give  me  ease.  Though 
young,  my  allowance  is  large.  Some  evil  mind  has 
worked  you  mischief,  I  am  told,  and  you  are  poor.  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  take  my  money  as  your  own,  —  I  have 
no  right  to.  But  do  at  least  show  me  that  you  have 
so  far  forgiven  me  as  to  sutler  me  to  lend  it  to  you, 
and  see  you  well  established  in  your  trade.  It  is  the 
only  atonement  left  me;  and  you  will  not  cut  me  off 
from  that?'  Frank  refused,  and  the  villain  begged 
like  a  slave.  Frank  began  to  think  it  was  sinful  j>ride; 
and  he  thouglit  of  Sally,  and  then  he  ct)nscnt('d. 
The  money  was  lent,  and  :is  soon  as  Frank  had  laid 
it  out  in  stock  for  trade,  the  note  was  put  in  suit,  and 
he  was  stripjx'd  of  all  h<;  had,  and  thrown  into  jail. 
He    found  a  friend  who   relc^ased    him;  antl   he  went 


178  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

to  sea.  And  think,"  said  she,  turning  to  Tom,  "he 
that  contrived  it  all  was  little  older  than  you  are  now ; 
and  yet  he  wears  a  gay  heart  and  fair  outside. 

"  I  need  not  tell  of  the  parting.  It  was  a  bitter  one, 
and  no  meeting  after.  There  was  a  storm  at  sea,  and 
the  ship  went  down.  And  many  a  night  have  I  lain 
and  seen  the  body  heaved  up,  wave  after  wave,  as  they 
took  it,  one  after  another,  till  they  bore  it  away,  far,  far, 
out  of  sight.  The  news  came  at  last ;  yet  she  shed  no 
tear,  nor  spoke  a  word ;  but  her  silence  was  dreadful, 
—  it  was  like  a  spirit  near  me.  For  many  days  she 
sat  in  that  corner,  with  her  hands  clasping  her  knees, 
looking  with  a  glazed  eye  upon  the  fire ;  and  I  could 
see  her  pining  away  before  me  as  she  sat  there.  At 
last  she  would  leave  the  house  at  nightfall,  when  it 
was  chilly  autumn,  and  when  the  crisped,  frozen  grass 
would  crumble  under  her  feet.  And  I  have  found  her 
standing  on  the  top  of  a  hill  near,  many  and  many  a 
night,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moon,  her  lips  moving 
and  giving  a  low  sound,  —  of  what,  I  could  not  tell. 
Nor  would  she  look  at  me,  nor  mind  that  I  was  by. 
And  I  have  led  her  home,  and  laid  her  shivering  in  her 
bed,  and  she  would  take  no  heed  of  me.  At  last  the 
cold  winds  and  the  snow  struck  her.  But  as  she  lay 
there  on  the  bed,  her  mind  opened :  it  did  not  wander 
any  more.  She  said  that  but  one  being  had  done  her 
wrong,  and  though  it  was  an  awful  wrong,  she  was 
sure  that  she  forgave  him,  and  would  pray  that  he 
might  be  forgiven. 

"  Just  before  she  died,  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
me,  —  she  saw  me  look  at  it.  '  It  was  a  fresh  hand 
once,  but  it  is  dead  and  shrunken  now ;  and  there  are 
the  blue  veins,'  said  she,  tracing  them  with  one  of  her 
fingers,  'where  the  blood  used  to  flow  warm  and  quick ; 


TOM    THORNTON.  179 

but  they  are  dried  up,  though  they  stand  out  so.  I  am 
going  to  peace,  mother,  and  to  him  that  loved  me.' 
The  tears  fell  on  her  pillow,  as  she  said,  '  But  when  I 
am  gone,  wlio  will  take  care  of  you  in  your  old  age  ? ' 
Then,  looking  upward,  with  a  bright  smile  over  her 
face,  and  witliout  turning  toward  me,  — '  God,  my 
mother,  God  will  take  care  of  you.'  I  felt  it  like  a 
revelation  from  heaven ! 

"  She  died,  and  I  laid  her  where  she  wished  to  be 
laid,  in  that  grave  you  saw  by  the  stream.  You  spoke 
of  one,  did  you  not  ?  I  bring  water  from  that  brook, 
morning  and  night;  and  when  the  weather  is  calm  I 
stop  and  pray  at  her  grave,  and  in  the  driving  storm  I 
utter  my  prayer  in  the  spirit  as  I  pass  by,  —  and  with 
God  it  is  the  same,  if  it  come  from  a  sincere  heart.  — 
My  story  is  done.  —  It  is  late,  and  you  have  walked  far ; 
and  there  is  a  clean  bed  for  you,  though  a  hard  one, 
in  the  next  room."  Tom  wished  her  good  night ;  but 
she  did  not  answer  him ;  he  saw  that  she  could  not. 
"  O,  Isaac  Beckford,"  murmured  she,  as  Tom  shut  the 
door,  "  there  is  a  heavy  sin  on  your  soul.  May  there 
be  mercy  in  heaven  for  you ! "  Tom  did  not  hear  the 
name,  or  suspect  his  friend. 

Though  he  rose  early,  he  found  breakfast  ready. 
The  hostess  looked  cheerful;  for  every  aflliction  has 
its  comfort  to  the  Christian.  "  And  now,"  said  he, 
shoving  back  his  chair  from  the  tai)le,  "  how  am  I  to 
find  my  way  to  the  city  ?  " 

"Look,"  said  the  old  woman,  going  to  the  door; 
"  yonder  you  see  the  wood  which  borders  this  heath ; 
and  there  are  the  chimneys  of  Beckford  mansion,  and 
the  great  road  winds  iiear  it.  You  will  see  no  smoke 
there,  thougii  a  clear  morning.  It  is  an  empty  house 
now.     The  heath  brought  you  a  short  route,  for  it  is 


180  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

only  a  dozen  miles  or  so  to  town.  Nigh  enough,  I 
fear,  to  such  a  place,  for  one  with  passions  like  yours." 

"  What  know  you  of  my  passions,  good  woman  ? 
What  have  you  heard  of  me  ?  " 

"  Naught  in  the  world.  But  do  I  not  see  them  in 
the  moving  of  your  lip,  and  the  gleam  of  that  eye? 
Rein  them  with  a  steady  hand,  or  they  may  prove  of 
too  hot  mettle  for  you."  Tom  thanked  her,  and  then 
offered  her  money.  "  You  came  as  a  cast-away," 
said  she,  "and  I  cannot  take  it."  He  tendered  it 
again.  "  No,  no,  I  can  never  take  fare-money  of  one 
who  has  listened  to  my  story."  Tom  urged  her  no 
further,  but  wishing  her,  kindly,  good  morning,  set  out 
on  his  way. 

As  he  drew  near  the  city,  the  roads  became  crowded, 
and  his  spirits  rose.  "  What  a  mighty  stir  is  here,  — 
and  what  a  medley !  Things  of  all  sorts,  from  horse- 
cart  and  check-frock  to  coach  and  laces!  And  who  is 
merriest  of  the  crowd  it  would  be  hard  to  tell.'  At  last 
came  the  hubbub  and  rattle  of  the  town.  "  One  needs 
a  speaking-trumpet,  to  be  heard  here,"  thought  Tom. 

By  dint  of  inquiry,  a  quick  eye,  and  ready  mind,  he 
soon  found  the  street,  and  the  number  of  the  house 
of  Beckford's  guardian.  The  servant  made  Tom's 
arrival  known  to  Isaac.  "  What,  my  young  protege  I " 
exclaimed  Isaac  to  himself  "  And  in  good  time ;  for 
soon  I  shall  be  a  free  man,  and  he  must  minister  to  my 
pleasure,  as  must  every  one  whom  I  favour.  I  must 
see  that  he  is  brought  up  in  the  way  he  should  go." 

With  a  deliberate  step  and  plotting  mind,  he  walked 
down  stairs  ;  but,  rushing  swiftly  into  the  room  and 
running  to  Tom,  seized  him  round  the  shoulders,  with 
a  hearty  God  bless  you,  and  How  are  you,  my  buck. 
This  welcome  was  a  cordial  to  Tom's  heart ;  for,  with 


TOM  THORNTON. 


181 


all  his  hiijh  spirits,  the  manncT  of  his'  leavins:  home, 
and  what  he  had  passed  tlirouii^h  since,  had  dej^ressed 
him  and  made  him  thoughttul ;  and  he  was  ill  at  ease 
witii  liimseir.  Alter  many  questions  about  old  play- 
mates, and  jokes  upon  past  school  tricks,  Tom  told 
Isaac  that  he  wished  to  see  him  where  they  should  not 
be  interrupted. 

"  To  be  sure  you  shall,"  said  Isaac,  stepping  into  a 
side  room,  and  locking  the  door  after  them.  "  But 
what  is  all  this  for?  You  have  no  game  afoot  here 
already,  surely  ?  Or  has  some  hare  escaped  you  ?  If 
so,  't  is  I  must  start  her  again.  I  've  the  scent  of  a 
hound,  Tom." 

"  A  good  quality.  Not  wanted  now,  however.  J 
will  tell  you  what  it  is."     And  he  told  his  story. 

"  A  pretty  child  you,  to  quarrel  with  your  bread  and 
butter.  A  lad  of  mettle,  truly.  But  does  one  show 
his  spirit  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  broken  head  ?  You 
must  put  yourself  imder  my  care.  I  see  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  live  pleasantly  enough  without 
the  old  folks,  till  your  father  repents ;  which,  I  war- 
rant you,  will  be  shortly.  In  the  mean  time,"  said 
Isaac,  scaiming  Tom  as  he  spoke,  "  there  must  be  a 
change  from  top  to  toe." 

"  I  have  no  money,"  said  Tom. 

"I  have,  though,"  said  Isaac;  "so  give  yourself  no 
concern."  Tom  coloured,  lie  had  not  thought  oi" 
this  before.     Isaac  burst  into  a  loud  langli. 

"  Give  me  leave,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 
"  Why,  you  look  as  yon  did  when  caught  l)y  your 
master  stealing  his  rod.  'I'here  is  no  other  way  for 
you;  if  you  won't  sutler  me  a  trilling  favour,  you 
must  })ilk  the  tailor." 

"1    tell   you    what,"  said   Toiu  ;  "I   would   be  under 

VOL.    I.  10 


182  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

such  obligations  to  no  man  living  but  you.  And  I 
like  not  that  even.  Money  favours  are  but  poor  bonds 
of  friendship." 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  Isaac ;  "  your  father  will  pay  all ;  and 
should  he  be  stiff  about  it,  if  I  credit  him,  and  lose, 
what 's  that  to  you  ?  So,  now  for  a  merry  year  to 
come." 

"  Not  so  fast,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  want  your  assistance, 
but  in  another  way.     You  have  influential  friends.     I 
did  not  come  here  for  sport.     I  am  for  sea  and  sea- 
fights."     Isaac  gave  him    a  questioning  look.     "'Tis' 
even  so ;  I  am  set  upon  it,  Isaac." 

"  Well,  then,  so  be  it.  But  first,  come,  see  my 
guardian." 

Isaac  was  right  in  his  conjecture  about  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton. His  wife's  anxiety  concerning  the  fate  of  her 
son,  and  the  reflection  that  he  had  been  hasty  and 
unjust  towards  him,  led  the  old  gentleman  to  write  to 
Isaac's  uncle;  for  he  had  little  doubt  whither  Tom 
had  gone.  Mr.  Beckford  stated,  in  his  answer,  Tom's 
desire  to  go  into  the  navy ;  and  it  was  concluded  that 
Tom  should  have  a  moderate  supply  of  money,  and 
be  fm'thered  in  his  intent,  without  knowing  anything 
of  his  father's  share  in  the  business.  Isaac  therefore 
appeared  as  principal,  and  he  took  care  to  increase 
his  influence  by  it ;  but  he  could  not  turn  Tom  from 
his  purpose,  and  he  did  not  like  to  thwart  his  rich 
uncle. 

Thornton's  mind  was  so  fuU  of  ships  and  the  seas, 
of  fights  and  promotion,  that  Isaac  saw  it  was  impos- 
sible to  sink  him  in  dissipation  at  once.  "  "Whatever 
is  that  lad's  object,"  said  Beckford,  "  is  a  passion  with 
him  for  the  time.     I  must  give  him  line." 

"  Are  you  going  to  run  me  through,  Tom  ?  " 


TOM    THORNTON.  183 

"  I  was  only  boardlnir  tlie  enemy." 

"  That  coat  is  of  the  trne  cut,  Tom." 

'•  It  sots  no  more  to  the  slmpc  of  a  man  than  to  a 
partridge.  When  1  am  admiral,  Isaac,  —  as  I  shall 
be " 

'•  God  save  vou,  admiral  I " 

upii  do  —  •' 

'-  What  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Pav  von  the  tailor's  bill,  for  havins:  made  me  such 
a  thing  to  show  clothes  on.  Let  's  to  the  sliip.  She 
sits  on  the  water,"  said  Tom,  as  they  were  carried 
towards  her,  '•  as  if  she  were  born  of  the  sea.  And 
then  again,  so  tall,  and  light,  and  graceful,  she  seems  a 
creature  of  the  air." 

A  few  days  before  sailing,  he  received  a  guarded 
letter  from  his  mother.  He  threw  it  angi'ily  upon  the 
table.  "  No,  no  I  This  was  written  under  the  hard 
eye  of  my  father."  And  he  \M:ote  an  answer  full  of 
atFection  and  high  hopes. 

As  Tom  had  early  resolved  to  command  a  ship  of 
war,  he  had  made  good  use  of  his  time  at  school  to 
learn  all  but  what  practice  gives.  With  a  quick  in- 
sight into  whatever  he  tnriicd  his  attention  to,  his 
many  and  appropriate  inquiries,  and  close  and  wide 
observation,  he  soon  made  himself  familiar  with  all 
that  could  be  acquired  in  port,  and  ri'ady  for  much 
that  the  sea  would  tearli  liim. 

There  was  a  stiff  breeze  and  a  clear  blue  sky,  and 
the  air  was  radiant  with  the  sun,  when  lie  hade  fare- 
well to  Isaac.  Tom's  brave,  liery,  open  tiMuper  made 
young  Beckford's  sly,  cautious,  and  vicious  disposition 
Beem  despicable  and  weak  even  to  iiinisejf,  and  he 
was  fixed  iqjon  revenge,  lie  was  one  of  that  class 
who  carry  a  hell  within  them,  —  who,  i)elonging  to  the 


184  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

rank  of  ordinary  beings,  and  wanting  the  bold  and 
sustaining  spirit  of  open  hostility,  bear  secret  hate  to 
aU  above  them. 

"  This  is  life,"  said  Tom,  as  he  stood  looking  out  on 
the  ocean.  "  The  unseen  winds  make  music  overhead ; 
the  very  ship  rejoices  in  the  element  in  which  she 
moves  ;  and  the  sea  on  which  we  are  opening,  looking 
limitless  as  eternity,  heaves  as  if  there  were  life  in  it." 

Tom  had  high  notions  of  a  ship's  discipline,  and 
submitted  with  a  good  grace.  "  And  so  will  I  be 
obeyed,"  thought  he,  "  when  my  turn  comes."  Though 
among  his  fellow-officers  his  manner  was  too  impetu- 
ous, yet  there  was  something  so  hearty  and  frank  in  it, 
that  they  could  not  take  offence.  He  exacted  perfect 
obedience  where  he  commanded,  but  was  free  from 
cruelty.  He  was  continually  learning  of  experienced 
officers;  nor  did  he  suffer  the  slightest  thing,  which 
could  be  of  use,  to  escape  his  observation.  He  visited 
foreign  ports ;  and  with  a  curiosity  all  alive  and  per- 
petually gratified,  this  earth  was  like  a  new  world  to 
him. 

At  last  came  the  news  of  a  war,  and  Tom  rubbed 
his  hands  like  an  epicure  over  a  smoking  dinner.  "  A 
bloody  battle,  and  I  shall  mount,  —  or  fall,  and  another 
walk  over  me :  all  the  same  to  the  world."  At  length 
was  given  the  cry  of  "  A  sail " ;  and  Tom  saw  a  ship 
ahead  rising  up,  as  it  were,  slowly  and  steadily  out 
of  the  sea,  as  she  neared.  As  she  tacked  to  the  wind, 
he  gazed  upon  her  almost  with  rapture.  "  Queen  of 
the  sea,"  cried  he,  "  how  silently,  and  beautifully,  and 
stately,  she  bears  herself  I  " 

"  A  heavy  ship,"  said  an  older  officer. 

"  She  's  a  superb  bird  of  passage,"  answered  Tom, 
"  fit   messenger  for  the   gods.     'T  is   a   pity  ;    but  we 


TOM    THORNTON.  185 

must  bring  her  clown."  A  distant  tire  was  opened. 
He  looked  disappointed  and  impatient  tiiat  so  little 
was  done. 

"  You  will  be  gratified  to  your  heart's  content  pres- 
ently, young  man.  We  shall  have  no  boy's  play  to- 
day}' 

"  Nor  do  I  want  it.  Let  it  come  hot  and  heavy." 
And  his  eye  brightened  and  his  spirits  rose,  the  harder 
and  closer  the  fight. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  the  enemy's  mainmast  swayed 
once  or  twice,  then  came  a  crash  and  a  cry,  and  it 
went  by  the  board.  Tom  shuddered,  and  shut  his  eyes 
convulsively,  as  he  saw  the  poor  fellows  go  with  it. 
All  was  in  a  moment  forgotten,  when,  the  ship  he  was 
in  falling  on  the  other's  bow,  the  cry  to  board  was 
heard.  He  jumped  upon  the  enemy's  deck  with  the 
spring  of  a  tiger.  They  gave  way.  He  was  foremost 
through  the  fight,  with  a  wet  brow  and  clotted  hand. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  deck  was  cleared  of  all  but  the 
dead  and  dying.  AU  was  bustle  and  joy  on  one  side; 
and  Tom's  heart  swelled,  when  the  captain  in  his 
warmth  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand.  But  no  one 
envied  him,  so  meekly  did  he  bear  it.  He  stepped  back 
a  little.  A  dying  man  gave  his  last  groan  at  his  feet. 
Tom  started,  ajid,  looking  down,  saw  the  sightless,  open 
eyes  of  the  dead  man  turned  up  toward  him.  It  shrunk 
his  very  heart  up.  "And  has  this  been  my  sport?" 
said  he.  "  CJod  forgive  me!  "  Tom  went  home,  as  one 
of  the  officers  of  the  prize,  with  a  high  commendation 
of  his  conduct. 

••  i  am  worn  with  this  incessant  heave  of  the  sea," 
said  he,  a.s  h(;  hung  over  the  ship's  side,  "  and  long  1o 
be  ashore,  and  smell  the  earth  again,  and  iui\  in  the 
occupations  «»J   unii.      Thf   moon   shine.s  us   fair   here, 

in* 


186  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  looks  as  happy,  showing  her  dimpled  face  in  the 
water,  as  if  she  had  all  the  world  to  worship  her.  The 
sky  and  earth  hold  blessed  and  silent  communion, 
which  we,  who  crawl  about  here,  think  not  of.  Would 
I  could  share  in  it,  and  mingle  with  the  ah',  and  be  all 
a  sensation  too  deep  for  sound,  —  a  traveller  among 
the  stars,  and  filled  with  light !  I  am  a  thing  of  clay, 
a  creature  of  sin,"  he  murmured,  as  he  turned  and 
"went  to  the  cabin. 

The  rim  of  the  sea  was  of  gold,  when  the  sun 
wheeled  slowly  up,  and  burnished  the  ocean.  The 
light  flashed  up  into  the  cabin  windows.  Thornton's 
soul  enlarged  itself  as  he  looked  out  upon  this  life  of 
the  world.  Going  upon  deck,  he  found  an  old  officer 
there,  who  had  been  watching  the  harbour  light,  till  it 
went  out  like  the  morning  star.  The  gay  islands,  that 
lay  softly  upon  the  sea,  looked  to  Thornton  like  mes- 
sengers sent  to  welcome  him  to  land ;  and  as  he  made 
the  shore,  even  the  dark  rocks  seemed  sociable,  as  if 
they  had  come  down  to  meet  him.  He  landed  with 
an  exulting  spirit,  amidst  the  cheers  of  the  populace 
and  hearty  congratulations  of  the  few  acquaintances 
he  had  formerly  left  behind.  Isaac  was  not  among 
them;  and  upon  inquiry,  Thornton  learned  that  he 
was  out  of  town  at  the  house  of  old  Mr.  Beckford,  his 
late  guardian.  As  soon  as  Tom  could  leave  the  city, 
he  drove  out  thither. 

As  he  dashed  along  with  a  speed  that  made  the 
fields  and  trees  seem  hurrying  by  him,  he  thought  of 
the  time  when  he  trudged  the  same  road  afoot  and  an 
outcast,  and  not  noticed  of  a  passer-by.  "  I  always 
felt  that  I  should  rise,  and  make  men  look  up  to  me ; 
and  I  will  be  higher  yet  ere  long.  Neither  will  it  ])e  a 
gallows  elevation,  as  my  father  [)rophesied.     What  a 


TOM    THORNTON.  187 

triumph  I  have  gained  over  them!  They  shall  not  fail 
to  hear  of  it,  and  that  shortly.  —  What  a  selfish  wretch 
am  I!  Whose  hearts,  in  all  the  world,  will  be  prouder 
and  ifhuidcr  than  theirs  at  my  success?" — He  whirled 
up  the  winding  way  to  the  house,  and  sprang  to  the 
ground  as  light  as  if  buoyed  by  the  air.  There  was 
one  who  saw  him  from  behind  the  window-curtain. 
"  What  a  gallant  fellow !  "  she  cried.  "  He  descended 
to  the  earth  like  one  of  the  gods.  What  a  form  I 
Who  can  it  be  ?  It  must  be  young  Thornton.  Yes, 
the  whole  face  tallies  with  what  I  've  heard  of  his  dar- 
ing and  impetuous  character.  Heigh-ho,  I  wonder 
what 's  become  of  Mr.  Henley.  I  hope  he  has  not 
broken  his  poor  neck,  and  rid  himself  of  his  million  of 
complaints  at  once." 

Tom  followed  the  servant,  and  came  so  suddenly 
upon  Isaac,  that  he  was  not  prepared  to  make  his  usual 
demonstrations  of  joy.  Tom  felt  it  for  an  instant. 
But  Isaac,  seeing  his  errour,  began  repairing  it,  by  ask- 
ing question  after  question,  hardly  giving  Tom  time  to 
answer  one  of  them,  and  expressing  all  the  ^vhile  the 
warmest  joy  at  his  success. 

"  Well,  Tom,  half  a  dozen  years  have  doni'  mucii 
lor  you." 

"  Yes,  and  I  mean  that  six  to  come  shall  do  more." 

"  Well  resolved,  as  usual,  and  surely,  ]  have  no 
doubt;  for  you  have  fire  and  skill  to  melt  and  cast  to 
your  liking.  Come  along,  and  take  a  look  at  my  lair 
cousin,  —  cousin  T  call  her,  though  a  third  remove. 
But  have  a  care,  my  boy,  for  her  worn-out  rake  of  a 
husband  knows  what  a  woman  is,  and  lias  a  Ivnx's 
eye. 

Tliere  is  uolhiiii^'   better    ralciiiatefl    to    pill    a    lliaii    ill 

a  woman's  power,  i ban   bidding   liim   be  on  his  guard 


188  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

against  her ;  for  he  at  once  imagines  that  he  may  be 
an  object  of  interest  to  her,  and  that  there  is  something 
in  her  worth  being  a  slave  to. 

When  Thornton  entered  the  room,  the  sun  was 
down,  but  the  deep  clouds  were  on  fire  with  his  light, 
and  threw  their  warm  glow  upon  a  rich  crimson  sofa, 
on  which  rested,  clad  in  light  drapery,  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Henley.  She  was  leaning  on  her  elbow,  which 
sunk  into  a  cushion,  raising  her  a  little,  and  giving 
a  luxurious  curvature  to  the  body,  and  showing  the 
limbs  in  all  their  fine  proportions  and  fulness.  Her 
wrist,  a  little  bent,  shone  with  a  dazzling  whiteness, 
while  her  fingers  were  half  hid  among  the  leaves  of  a 
costly  book.  Her  fairy  foot,  in  a  white  satin  slipper, 
was  playing  in  the  deep  flounce  of  the  sofa;  and  as 
she  rose  with  a  pretended  embarrassment,  the  ex- 
quisitely tm'ned  ancle  glanced  for  an  instant  on  Thorn- 
ton's sight.  Something  shot  through  his  breast  with 
the  acuteness  of  an  electric  shock;  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  could  give  utterance  to  the  usual 
compliments.  His  confusion  was  not  unobserved  by 
Isaac  or  the  lady ;  and  they  were  both  determined  to 
turn  it  to  their  several  purposes,  and  from  very  differ- 
ent motives. 

JMrs.  Henley  had  lived  in  Isaac's  neighbourhood  long 
before  her  marriage ;  and  her  fine  person  and  face,  and 
the  slow,  wavy  outline  which  deep  passion  gave  to  her 
movements,  had  excited  in  him,  to  an  intense  degree, 
all  that  he  was  capable  of  feeling  for  a  woman.  The 
loose  and  evil  passions  were  strong  in  him  ;  and  as  he 
was  without  true  courage,  he  gratified  them  by  inge- 
nuity and  trick.  When  such  persons  are  understood, 
the  men  despise  and  the  women  loathe  them.  All  his 
endeavours  to  ingratiate  himself  witli  his  cousin   only 


TOM    THORNTON. 


ISO 


made  him  the  more  disgusting  to  her ;  lor  when  he  was 
most  intent  upon  ploasing  iier,  his  mannor  was  a  mix- 
ture of  fawning  and  coud(>scension,  wiiieh  moved  her 
contempt  and  touched  her  pride.  Sometimes  she  re- 
venged herself  by  cold  disdain;  at  others,  by  turning 
him  to  ridicule  with  her  j)layful  and  ready  wit.  But 
Isaac  could  submit  to  be  trodden  on,  so  he  coudd  gain 
liis  object,  or  compass  his  revenge ;  and  he  swore 
Fanny  should  be  Mrs.  Beckford,  or  rue  the  day  she 
married  another.  He  had  failed  in  his  first  purpose, 
and  was  now  bent  on  vengeance.  He  saw  the  eftcct 
that  Tom  had  produced  on  her,  and  that  he  was  not 
untouched.  Isaac's  plan  was  fonned ;  and,  although  he 
had  determined  to  use  Tom  as  a  mere  instrument  for 
his  own  end,  he  hated  him  for  that  very  preference 
which  had  been  shown  to  him,  though  it  made  him 
more  easily  his  tool. 

Fanny,  with  all  her  hate  of  Isaac,  would  have  been 
Mrs.  Beckford,  had  no  better  establishment  offered. 
She  was  selfish,  of  strong  passions,  regardless  of  prin- 
ciples, extravagant,  and  ambitious,  with  a  mind  some- 
what tasteful,  yet  fond  of  the  showy,  of  higli  spirit 
and  quick  intellect  (which  is  everything  in  fashionable 
society),  and  with  art  to  appear  whatever  she  chose 
at  the  time.  She  was  balancing  in  secret  the  pros  and 
cons  of  a  marriage  with  Isaac,  when  Mr.  Henley,  who 
had  wasted  one  fortune  early  in  Ufe,  now  suddenly  pre- 
sented himself  with  a  broken  constitution  and  fretful 
disposition,  but  with  a  large  estate,  to  which  he  had 
just  succeeded ;  and  she  in  due  time  became  Mrs.  Hen- 
ley. She  soon  devoted  lierself  to  spending  his  fortune, 
leaving  him  to  his  do(;t()r  and  nurse. 

"  Why,  Tom,"  said  Isaac,  in  a  langhing  way,  but 
with  a  malignant  purpose,  "  you  were  as  careless  and 


190  THE   IDLE    MAN. 

easy  in  company  of  the  ladies  before  you  went  to  sea, 
as  you  were  at  your  whist-club ;  but  you  look  as  awk- 
ward now  as  some  Jonathan,  who  is  working  himself 
up  to  a  tender  of  himself  and  kine  to  a  country  maiden. 
Does  the  salt  water  always  have  such  an  effect  ?  " 

"  If  it  does,"  said  Fanny,  "  there  are  more  virtues  in 
a  sea-voyage  than  I  had  before  heard  of;  and  it  might 
be  a  benefit  to  some  whom  I  had  long  put  down  on 
the  list  of  incurables." 

"  "Why,  coz,  one  so  pretty  as  you  should  only 
shoot  Cupid's  arrows,  and  not  wound  us  with  those 
of  wit." 

"  'T  is  pity  it  should  have  mischiefed  you ;  I  but  shot 
it  o'er  the  house. 

"  And  wounded  your  brother." 

"  Something  too  much  akin,  that,  Isaac." 

"  Then  you  are  not  for  the  Platonics  ?  " 

"  Not  with  a  handsome  youth  like  you."  Isaac  bit 
his  lip,  and  Tom  laughed. 

"  Why,  Isaac,  did  I  ever  before  see  you  so  foiled  ? 
You  have  grown  dull  since  I  left  you.  Have  your 
wits  sharpened,  —  have  them  sharpened,  Isaac." 

"  So  do,  Isaac,  and  on  your  heart,"  she  whispered ; 
"  it  wUl  serve." 

"  I  wiU,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  and  to  your  cost, 
you  shall  find,  you  silly  ones." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Henley  entered,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  old  Mr.  Beckford,  who,  now  far  advanced  in 
life,  was  of  a  cheerful,  fresh,  and  benevolent  aspect. 
Mr.  Beckford  shook  Thornton  by  the  hand,  and  wel- 
comed him  well  ashore.  The  other  was  a  tall,  stoop- 
ing, gaunt  figure,  with  a  sallow  and  thin  face,  dark, 
hanging  eyebrows,  and  a  glancing,  cautious  eye.  With 
all  this,  he  showed  the  remains  of  a  handsome  person, 


TOM    THORNTON.  191 

and  was  what  is  commonly  called  a  polished  gentle- 
man.    He  received  Tom  with  a  ccmrtly  distance. 

'•  My  dear,"  said  his  wife,  atlecting  concern,  "  you 
don't  know  liow  uneasy  I  have  been  about  you." 

'•  Perhaps  not,''  he  replied,  without  seeming  to  re- 
gard her. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  you  have  caught  your  death  this 
cool  evening." 

"  O,  you  are  too  anxious  about  me,"  he  answered ; 
"  I  do  not  feel  myself  dying  quite  yet."  Tom  ground 
his  teeth  against  each  other,  as  he  overheard  these 
replies. 

They  met  at  breakfast.  Tiie  rich  evening  dress 
was  changed  for  a  simple  robe,  and  Fanny  looked  as 
fresh  as  if  she  had  bathed  in  the  dew  of  roses.  When 
the  uncle  and  the  husband  were  out  of  the  way,  Isaac 
gave  such  a  turn  to  the  conversation  as  would  lead  to 
his  object.  Then  he  proposed  a  walk  in  the  little 
wood  near  the  house ;  and  when  they  had  entered  it, 
suddenly  remembering  some  particular  business,  left 
Tom  and  Mrs.  Henley  together.  The  light  shawl 
caught  in  the  branches,  and  what  less  could  Tom  do 
than  adjust  it  carefully  over  tlie  finest  shoulders  in  the 
world,  unless  we  except  the  Venus's,  —  bvit  hers  are  not 
living  shoulders.  There  was  a  brook  to  pass,  and  an 
unsightly  tree  lying  rudely  across  the  path,  and  last  of 
all  happened  that  fatal  accident,  —  and  the  shoe-lacing 
was  seen  trailing  the  ground. 

Before  many  days,  Tom  had  lost  all  control  over 
himself.  He  had  but  one  feeling  and  one  tiiought. 
Isaac  saw  that  aflairs  were  going  too  fast.  "  The  1ms- 
baiul  will  be  u[)()ii  th(^  trail,  and  the  sport  be  all  np. 
We  must  hav<!  doublings  and  crossings,"  tlu)Ugiit  he. 

The  husband  was  not  .so  quicksighted  as  Isaac  feared. 


192  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

He  had  always  been  jealous  of  his  wife,  and  not  with- 
out reason.  Jealousy,  however,  like  most  passions,  dis- 
criminates but  poorly ;  and  Mr.  Henley  had  been  as 
much  alarmed  and  as  impatient  at  little  circumstances, 
a  thousand  times  before,  as  he  was  at  what  was  pass- 
ing now. 

The  uncle,  who  was  a  looker-on,  and  knew  well  the 
wife's  character  and  Tom's  ardent  temperament,  joined 
with  Isaac,  though  from  opposite  motives,  in  urging 
Tom  to  hasten  his  visit  to  his  father,  from  whom  he 
had  received  a  kind  letter  calling  him  home.  He  had 
not  lost  his  affection  for  his  parents,  but  he  was  infatu- 
ated. Day  after  day  was  set  for  the  visit,  and  it  was 
as  many  times  put  off.  "  I  will  propose  going  with 
him,  and  to-morrow,"  said  Isaac  to  himself.  "  I  am 
not  ready  for  the  catastrophe.  He  must  be  more  in 
my  power.  He  must  rake,  he  must  game,  he  must 
want  money."  For  the  passion  which  Isaac  saw  in 
his  cousin  for  young  Thornton  had  worked  up  towards 
him  the  hate  of  a  fiend. 

After  much  urging,  Tom  was  ready,  and  they  started. 
It  was  in  vain  that  Isaac  endeavoured  to  draw  him  into 
conversation.  At  length  his  home  appeared  in  sight. 
It  gave  Tom  the  first  happy  feeling  he  had  been  con- 
scious of  since  leaving  Beckford  house.  It  was  with 
sincere  joy  he  saw  his  parents  ;  and  his  mother's  tears 
touched  his  heart.  With  all  his  affection,  he  grew  rest- 
less in  a  day  or  two,  and  pleaded  his  duties  as  a  reason 
for  his  return.  The  old  gentleman  had  received  from 
Mr.  Beckford  a  letter  hinting  at  Tom's  dangerous  sit- 
uation. He  took  his  son  aside,  and  talked  kindly  and 
earnestly  with  him  upon  the  subject.  Tom  at  first 
denied  that  there  was  anything  to  fear.  "  Look  care- 
fully into  your  heart,"  said  his  father.     Tom  did,  and 


TOM    THORNTON.  193 

then  swore  that  he  would  think  no  more  of  her. 
"  Oaths  will  not  do  it,  my  son ;  the  mind  must  be  bent 
u]i  to  rty  the  temptation,  or  you  run  to  your  ruin." 
Ho  promised  to  himself  and  to  his  father  that  he 
would ;  but  the  next  day  hastened  to  it  with  the  speed 
of  fire.  — "  I  cannot  show  her  indilVerence  at  meeting, 
but  at  least  I  will  ajipcar  composed,"  thought  he. 

Upon  reaching  the  house,  Isaac  went  immediately 
to  his  chamber,  and  Thornton,  upon  entering  the  par- 
lour, suddenly  met  Mrs.  Henley  alone.  She  sprang 
hastily  towards  him;  then,  shrinking  back,  and  glow- 
ing with  what  Tom  took  for  shame,  let  fall  her  beau- 
tifully fringed  lids.  He  spoke  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
She  uttered  a  broken  word  or  two  ;  then,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  his,  showed  them  drinking  deep  of  passion. 
He  would  that  instant  have  folded  her  to  him,  but 
a  step  w^as  heard  in  the  room.  He  darted  out  of  the 
house,  muttering  between  his  teeth  something  about 
his  disappointment,  and  a  curse  on  the  fool  who  caused 
it. 

He  walked  on,  maddened  with  the  tumult  of  pas- 
sions within  him.  He  was  not  sensible  whither  he 
was  going,  till  he  suddenly  saw  at  his  feet  the  grave 
of  Sally  Wentworth.  He  recoiled  from  it  like  a  fallen 
angel  from  the  presence  of  the  holy,  and  his  abomina- 
tions rose  up  black  before  him.  He  felt  like  an  outcast 
from  heaven  ;  as  if  the  very  dead  condemned  him,  and 
shut  him  out  as  a  creature  unfit  to  lie  down  at  rest 
with  them. 

"  The  dead,  the  dead,  no  passions  are  torturing  them ; 
but  shall  I  ever  shake  olf  mine?"  He  was  leaning 
upon  the  gravestone,  —  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  grave, — 
shuddering  at  his  own  passions,  and  ihinking  on  the 
quiet  below   him,   when   some  one  spoke.     "  Thomas 

VOL.    I.  17 


194  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Thornton,"  said  the  voice,  "  it  is  well  for  us  to  be 
here."  He  turned,  and  met  the  solemn,  but  mild  coun- 
tenance of  Sally's  mother.  She  observed  the  dark 
expression  of  his  face. 

"  That  should  not  be  the  face  of  one  who  holds 
communion  with  the  dead.  What  ails  thee,  man? 
Thou  lookest  like  one  condemned  for  his  crimes,  yet 
afraid  to  die.  It  is  an  awful  thing  so  to  live  as  to 
fear  to  die." 

"  It  is  not  death  I  fear,  good  mother ;  it  is  life,  — 
it  is  myself." 

"  And  dare  you  fear  to  live,  and  yet  not  dread  to 
die,  Thornton  ?  There  is  a  double  and  a  woful  curse 
upon  thee,  then." 

"  Do  not  you  curse  me,  and  standing  here,  too,  lest 
the  dead  sanction  it." 

"  I  curse  thee  ?  She  that  lies  here  cursed  not  him 
that  brought  misery  upon  her.  Neither  would  I  thee. 
It  becomes  not  us  to  condemn  one  another.  But  I 
fear  for  you,  Thornton,  —  I  fear  for  you.  And  did  I 
not,  the  morning  you  left  me,  warn  you  take  heed  to 
your  passions  ?  —  I  cannot  talk  with  others  here,"  she 
said,  looking  on  the  grave.  She  turned  away,  and  he 
followed  her. 

"  I  have  looked  to  see  you,  day  after  day,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  they  walked  towards  the  house  ;  "  for  I  have 
taken  more  concern  in  you  than  I  ever  thought  to 
again  in  fellow-mortal.  It  has  been  whispered  me, 
how  you  left  home  the  night  you  knocked  at  my  door ; 
and  it  did  my  heart  good  to  hear,  a  few  days  ago,  that 
you  had  gone  to  see  your  father  and  mother.  Nor  for 
that  alone  was  I  glad,  but  that  it  might  break  the  web 
which  I  saw  a  subtle  spider  weaving  round  you." 
Thornton    coloured.       "  You    have    not   darkened  this 


TOM    THORNTON.  195 

door,"  said  she,  as  they  drew  near  the  cottage.  "  I\Iy 
eye  has  been  npon  you,  nevertlieless,  at  the  house  yon- 
der."    They  both  turned  toward  it. 

"  'T  is  she  I  "  cried  out  Thornton.  "  Where  can  she 
have  been  ?  " 

"  Here,  no  doubt,  and  for  no  good  purpose,  I  fear. 
For  httle  have  I  seen  of  her  for  months  past ;  and  now 
she  has  but  just  missed  you,"  added  the  old  woman, 
casting  a  look  of  rebuke  upon  Tom.  His  cheek  flusiied 
a  burning  red  ;  but  his  eager  and  impatient  eye  was 
fixed,  like  a  hound  in  leash,  on  the  figure  at  a  distance. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  and  leaning  forward. 
"  How  this  heath  opens  wide  round  about  her,  that 
the  world  may  see  her  move  I  I  must  be  gone,  good 
mother." 

"  Hold,  hold  I "  said  the  old  woman,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm,  and  fastening  her  eye  on  his  fiery  counte- 
nance ;  "  art  mad  ?  " 

"  Mad  ?  Ay,  mad  as  the  winds.  She  '11  be  beyond 
reach  instantly.     I  must  go." 

"  By  tlie  spirit  of  iter  whose  grave  you  just  stood  by, 
stay  I  "  His  liands  fell  powerless,  but  his  eye  still  rest- 
ed on  the  object.  She  was  ascending  a  rising  ground ; 
and,  as  she  reached  the  top  of  it,  and  her  form  appear- 
ed against  a  burnished  evening  sky,  her  long  purple 
mantle  waving  in  the  winds,  "  She  touches  not  eartii," 
he  cried,  "  but  moves  amidst  the  very  clouds  in  glory  I  " 

"Monster  I"  cried  the  old  woman  ;  "can  you  look 
yonder,  and  worship  any  but  God  ?  "  The  voice  went 
through  him  like  a  word  from  heaven. 

'•  Mother,  forgive  me,"  said  he,  humbled  and  asham- 
ed. 

"  Ask  forgiveness  of  Him  you  have  oll'ended,  and  not 
of  me."     As  she  looked  upon  him,  her  heart  yearned 


196  THE  IDLE    MAN. 

towards  him  as  a  mother's  for  her  child.  He  raised  his 
eyes  towards  the  west  once  more,  but  she  whom  he 
sought  had  gone  down  the  hill,  and  was  out  of  sight. 
His  countenance  fell. 

"  Would  that  she  could  pass  so  from  your  mind ! " 

"  Would  that  I  could  be  taught  to  wish  it ! "  he  mur- 
mured. 

"  Turn  then,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  sky,  "  and 
learn  to  love  the  works  that  God  has  made,  and  still 
keeps  innocent,  —  to  love  them  because  they  are  His 
messengers  to  us,  the  ministers  of  His  power,  the  re- 
vealers  of  H&s  love  for  us.  Rejoice  in  them ;  feel  the 
heart  moved  by  them!  O,  I  have  stood,  at  an  hour 
like  this,  and  looked,  tiU  I  have  thought  the  light  of 
heaven  was  opening  upon  me,  and  God  was  near 
me."  —  She  turned  once  more  toward  Thornton.  His 
countenance  had  become  calm  and  elevated.  — "  My 
son,  could  you  learn  to  fill  yourself  with  such  thoughts 
as  are  now  within  you,  the  allurements  of  the  world 
would  be  a  tasteless  show  to  you.  But  the  heart  must 
love  something, —  it  must  be  sin  or  goodness."  There 
was  a  short  pause.  —  At  last  continued  the  old  woman, 
"  She  you  hunt  after  is  another's.  She  vowed  herself 
his  at  the  altar ;  and  if  it  is  a  stain  on  her  soul,  would 
it  for  that  be  less  a  sin  in  you  to  wrong  him  ?  " 

"  I  would  wrong  no  man,"  said  Thornton. 

"  What !  can  you  say  how  far  you  will  go,  when  you 
cannot  stop  now  ?  " 

"  I  will,  I  will,  even  now." 

"  Beware  that  you  stumble  not  through  too  much 
confidence.  Turn  away  from  the  temptation ;  for  she 
who  tempts  you,  I  fear,  is  eager  to  draw  you  on.  I 
would  not  speak  it  of  her  but  for  your  good,"  said 
the  old  woman,  the  colour  coming  to  her  pale  cheek ; 


TOM    THORNTON.  197 

"for  she  was  my  foster-child,  and  lias  slept  in  these 
arms,  and  I  loved  her  next  to  my  own.  But  ambition 
and  vanity  and  all  unchecked  passions  have  been  busy 
at  her  heart.  It  was  for  houses,  and  lands,  and  a  high 
place  in  the  world,  that  she  bartered  herself;  and  she 
who  will  do  that  by  holy  covenant  may  one  day  do  it 
witliput  bond.  You  are  now  going  into  the  world 
again  ;  but  carr\'  with  you,  if  you  would  have  mercy  on 
your  soul,  what  I  have  said ;  and  as  you  keep  it  with 
you,  so  Heaven  bless  you." 

He  grasped  her  hand ;  and  then  turned  and  walked 
homeward.  She  looked  after  him  till  he  was  lost 
in  the  twilight,  and,  with  a  misgiving  heart,  shut  her 
door. 

Thornton  went  directly  to  his  chamber.  He  was 
afraid  of  Isaac's  ridicule,  and  dared  not  trust  himself 
with  a  sight  of  Mrs.  Henley.  He  was  melancholy  and 
humble ;  but  there  was  a  virtue  in  his  state  of  mind 
which  made  him  less  impatient  of  himself  than  he  had 
been  for  weeks  past.  He  thought  of  the  widow  and 
her  daughter,  of  death,  and  what  is  to  come ;  and  his 
passions  subsided,  and  the  storm  of  the  mind  seemed 
clearing  and  settling  away,  and  he  had  the  quiet  sleep 
of  a  good,  man.  But  tlie  light  and  stir  of  day,  which 
scatter  our  resolves  and  fill  us  with  the  present,  came 
on ;  and  the  gay  and  beautiful  vision  of  Fanny  broke 
upon  him  with  the  morning  sun. 

He  sprang  from  bed ;  and  in  his  eagerness  to  hasten 
down  stairs,  everything  was  out  of  ])lace  and  fretting 
him  with  delay.  None  but  the  domestics  were  up. 
He  walked  out  a  f»'W  steps,  returned,  then  went  out 
again;  and  thus  contiimed  till  the  hn-ald'ast  hour  ar- 
rived. He  met  only  Mr.  IJcckford  and  Isaac  at  table. 
His  eye  was  ««»ii.~taiitlv  <mi  iIk-  door.     '•  Mr.  Ilcnlcy  and 


198  THE    IDLE    MANi 

lady  left  us  about  dusk  last  night,  for  the  city,"  said 
the  old  gentleman.  Thornton's  countenance  changed. 
"  I  fear  you  will  never  be  a  gallant,"  said  Isaac. 
"  To  think  that  you  should  not  be  here,  to  bid  so  fair 
a  lady  farewell  I  But  you  may  make  such  amends  as 
you  can,  for  we  all  move  town-ward  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  they  reached  the  city.  —  "  Make  your- 
self ready,"  said  Isaac,  "  for  we  are  to  go  to  Henley's 
to-night,  you  know." 

As  they  passed  along  the  streets,  the  brilliantly  light- 
ed shops,  the  gay  faces  and  talk  within,  and  then 
the  shadow  of  a  building  thrown,  here  and  there,  in 
straight  line  across  the  pavement,  and  some  one  mov- 
ing silently  through  its  obscurity,  gave  a  sudden  con- 
trast, and  a  strange  mixture  of  open  gayety  and  mys- 
terious stillness  to  the  scene,  which  excited  Thornton's 
mind,  at  the  same  time  that  he  felt  a  cautiousness  steal- 
ing over  him.  Then  was  heard  the  rumbling  of  a  car- 
riage. Presently  it  would  shoot  by  them  with  a  stunning 
rattling  of  the  wheels,  and  a  sharp  clatter  of  the  horses' 
hoofs,  now  and  then  striking  fire,  and  all  would  die 
away  again  in  the  darkness  and  distance. 

They  at  length  reached  the  superb  mansion  of  Mr. 
Henley.  It  was  like  entering  into  broad  daylight.  It 
shone  like  a  fairy  palace  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  And 
there  stood  Mrs.  Henley  under  a  large  chandelier,  richly 
and  splendidly  dressed,  her  fair  skin  sparkling  with  an 
almost  metallic  brightness,  and  her  eyes  fuU  of  light  and 
action.  At  the  first  glance  she  coloured ;  but,  recover- 
ing herself  with  a  practised  readiness,  gave  Thornton 
a  frank  welcome,  at  the  same  time  introducing  him  to 
the  circle  about  her.  Those  who  observed  his  confu- 
sion set  it  down  to  bashfulness,  and  as  such  passed  it 
by.     She  was  in  full  spirits,  talked  much  and  brilliantly ; 


TOM    THORNTON.  199 

and  his  fine  figure  and  face,  his  honest  veliemence  aiid 
hearty  good  nature,  drew  round  them  the  ehoice  part  of 
the  company.  Then  came  the  dance,  with  all  its  wind- 
ing and  wavy  motions;  and  her  soft  hand  rested  too 
long  in  his :  the  fingers  of  each  trembled,  and  told  what 
they  should  not.  The  flame  was  again  lighted  nj) 
within  him,  and  it  rose  and  swept  along  with  the  rush 
of  a  forest  fire.  He  lingered  as  long  as  Isaac  dared  let 
him,  and  was  at  last  half  drawn  away  by  him  from  tlie 
house.  He  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night,  at  one 
time  calling  himself  a  madman  and  villain,  and  then,  in 
hi>  hot  impatience,  swearing  that  no  earthly  j)ower 
should  bar  him  his  way.  The  thought  of  her  now  I'lil- 
ly  possessed  him.  She  saw  the  power  she  had  over 
iiini.  and  loved  it  too  well  to  risk  it  by  too  easily  yield- 
ing to  his  passion.  He  had  no  rest  out  of  her  presence, 
followed  her  wherever  she  went,  and  was  at  her  house 
morning  and  evening, 

'•  Tom,"'  said  Isaac,  one  day,  "  do  you  know  that  the 
world  begin  to  talk  about  you  and  my  sweet  coz  ?  " 

"  I  care  not  for  their  talk.  What  have  they  to  do 
with  me  or  with  her  ?  " 

"  Much,  my  young  blood,  so  long  as  you  make  a 
part  of  the  world.  And  it  is  something  to  me,  Tom, 
and  touches  me  nearly.  You  know  not  your  danger ; 
but  T  must  not  let  you  bring  disgrace  upon  any  of  our 
relations,  however  distant.  Besides,  the  husband  grows 
susj)icious  ;  and  would  you  spill  his  blood,  or  throw  so 
fine  a  girl  out  from  fortune  ? 

"  God  forbid  I"  said  he,  warmly.  "  Yet  I  know  not, 
Isaac,  —  my  power  over  myself  is  gone.  Save  me  I 
if  you  can,  save  me !  " 

"  And  so  I  will,  if  you  will  \h)  a  man.  We  must 
change  the  scena ;  and  you  shall  see  some  good  fellows. 


200  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  be  as  merry  as  ever,  I  warrant  you.  Come  along 
with  me." 

Tom  followed  as  if  his  self-will  was  lost.  He  talked 
and  laughed,  and  had  his  joke,  and  was  called  a  man 
of  spirit.  He  drank  to  excess,  and  grew  restifF.  The 
cool  Isaac  kept  an  eye  upon  him,  without  being  ob- 
served, and  took  him  off  in  time.  "  This  will  suffice 
for  a  beginning,"  said  Isaac  to  himself.  "  We  will 
minister  a  little  more  freely  next  time." 

Thornton  waked  languid  and  remorseful;  still,  he 
found  himself  in  a  few  hours  at  Henley's  house.  Isaac 
did  not  try  to  prevent  it.  He  was  only  retarding  the 
accomplishment  of  Tom's  wishes,  that  he  might  ruin 
him  altogether.  Then  came  more  riot  and  excess,  and 
lastly  gambling.  And  Tom  played  rashly  and  lost; 
for  he  was  trying  to  fly  from  himself,  and  cared  not  for 
fortune.  And  Isaac  lent  him  money  now  and  then, 
and  oftener  found  other  friends  to  fm'nish  him :  All 
was  ripening  for  Isaac's  purposes. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  Tom  received  a  letter  from  his 
father,  written  in  the  anguish  of  his  mind,  and  calling 
upon  his  son,  if  he  would  not  blast  an  old  man's  hopes, 
to  leave  the  city  and  come  to  him.  The  letter  spoke  of 
Tom's  mother,  her  distress,  and  the  fondness  with  which, 
in  the  midst  of  it,  she  clung  to  her  only  child.  Tom 
stamped  upon  the  floor,  with  vexation  and  shame, 
cursing  himself  as  the  vilest  wretch  alive.  "  I  will  go 
to  them,"  cried  he,  "  I  '11  go,  by  to-morrow's  light." 
The  morning  came,  and  then  he  thought  of  taking  an 
eternal  farewell,  and  the  like.  He  lingered,  and  Mrs. 
Henley's  carriage  drove  by.  There  was  a  familiar 
nod  and  a  smile,  and  his  resolutions  were  again  gone 
with  the  wind.  That  night  he  played  and  lost,  and 
grew  angry.     Then  came  a  duel.     He  was  wounded, 


TOM    THORNTON.  201 

and  called  a  man  of  honour.  In  a  few  day?*,  however, 
he  was  able  to  visit  at  Henley's. 

Notiiing  interests  a  fashionable  woman  half  so  much, 
as  a  genteel  young  fellow  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  par- 
ticularly if  he  received  his  hurt  in  a  duel.  Mrs.  Henley 
turned  pale  when  she  saw  Thornton,  spoke  breathing- 
ly  of  his  wound,  and  asked  a  thousand  kind  questions 
about  it.  —  "  The  hand  hangs  a  little  too  low,  methinks ; 
let  me  shorten  the  handkerchief."  And  standing  by 
his  side,  her  arms  were  partly  round  his  neck,  as  she 
was  trying  to  untie  the  knot.  Their  hearts  beat  quick. 
Thornton  could  control  himself  no  longer,  but  pressed 
her  madly  to  him.  Her  head  sank  upon  his  shoulder, 
while  she  murmured  that  he  would  be  her  ruin.  There 
were  vows  of  eternal  love,  and  protestations  of  honour, 
and  an  assignation.  The  last,  at  least,  was  not  kept ; 
for  Mr.  Henley  left  town  early  the  next  day,  compelling 
his  wife  to  accompany  him.  He  had  heard  and  seen 
enough  to  raise  his  suspicions.  He  did  not  want 
courage  to  call  Tom  out,  but  relished  little  the  thought 
of  being  pointed  at  as  the  unhappy  man  who  had 
been  engaged  in  an  atrair  of  honoiu:  with  his  wife's 
friend. 

When  Thornton  called  in  the  morning,  the  house 
was  shut  up.  He  rang,  but  no  one  came  to  the  door. 
After  walking  some  time  before  the  house,  he  returned 
to  inquire  of  Isaac  whither  they  had  gone.  Isaac 
could  only  conjecture.  Tom  uttered  the  direst  impre- 
cations upon  the  jealous  dolt's  head.  Isaac  afTected  to 
be  amused  at  Tom's  wrath. 

"  Why,  the  wench  has  jilt<'d  you,  uiy  young  sprig. 
You  stood  shill-I-shall-r  too  long."  But  he  bit  his  lips, 
and  swore  inwardly;  for  Ids  plotting  had  come  to 
nothing. 


202  THE    IDLE .  MAN. 

"  1  '11  hunt  them  the  world  through,"  cried  Tom,  "  ere 
I'll  be  thus  thwarted!" 

He  went  to  his  chamber,  and  found  on  his  table  a 
letter,  showing  the  greatest  alarm  in  his  mother  for  his 
father's  life.  "  What !  does  death  cross  between  me 
and  her  ?  "  His  blood  curdled  at  the  thought  of  what 
he  had  uttered.  —  "  She  has  made  me  a  child  of  hell ! " 
he  cried,  in  the  agony  of  his  passions.  "  Let  me  be 
gone,  let  me  be  gone  I  "  He  reached  home  in  time  to 
close  his  father's  eyes  and  lay  him  in  his  grave.  There 
was  something  more  than  grief  in  him  for  his  father's 
death.  It  was  the  fear  that  he  had  hastened  it.  —  "  He 
was  proud  of  me,"  thought  Tom,  "  harebrained  as  I 
was.  And  I  gave  him  hope,  and  in  the  midst  of  it 
let  a  woman  who  has  forgotten  me  cut  it  off";  and  I 
have  laid  him  in  his  grave,  disappointed  and  sorrow- 
ful. He  had  a  soul  of  honour;  and  I,  his  only  son, 
did  what  I  could  to  wound  it."  4ik^ 

The  grief  of  his  mother,  and  her  imploring  helpless- 
ness, took  Thornton's  mind  off"  from  its  regrets  and 
painful  thoughts,  while  it  softened  his  heart,  and  laid  it 
open  to  those  kind  and  gentle  aff'ections,  against  which 
it  had  for  so  long  a  time  been  shut.  His  manner  to  her 
was  as  mild,  and  soothing,  and  regardful,  as  if  no  head- 
long passions  had  ever  stirred  him :  There  was  some- 
thing almost  parental  in  it.  And  when  the  time  came 
that  he  should  adjust  his  father's  aff"airs,  in  order  to  go 
to  sea  again,  he  was  delicate  and  generous  towards  his 
mother  to  an  extreme. 

When  the  hour  arrived  for  him  to  leave  her,  she  hung 
round  him  and  wept  bitterly.  —  "  There  is  now  no  one 
in  all  the  earth  left  for  me  to  lean  upon  but  you, 
Thomas ;  and  my  soul  cleaves  to  you  as  all  betwixt  me 
and   death.     Remember  your  fond   old  mother,  when 


TOM    THORNTON.  203 

you  are  gone  from  her.  You  will  think  of  me  on  the 
seas,  but,  forgive  me,  Tom,  you  may  not  in  the  city." 

'•  Think  not  so  hardly  of  me,  my  mother ;  my  heart 
is  not  seared  yet.  Can  I  lose  all  thonglit  of  you  any- 
where, when,  perhaps,"  he  said,  brushing  a  tear  from 
his  lash,  "  it  is  I  who  have  made  you  so  soon  to  be 
alone  ?  No,  I  will  remember  you,  not  only  in  sorrow 
and  in  hoiu-s  of  solitude  and  thoughtfulness,  but  bear 
you  with  me  in  my  daily  life,  and  think  how  dear 
are  a  mother's  pride  and  joy  in  a  son." 

And  when  he  left  her,  he  begged  her  blessing  with 
as  submissive  and  meek  a  feeling  as  ever  entered  man's 
soul.  Intimate  atfections  and  beautiful  thoughts  were 
shooting  up  within  him ;  but  his  passions  would  sweep 
over  them  like  a  strong  wind,  and  leave  them  torn  and 
dead  in  the  dust. 

He  reached  the  city  a  few  days  before  sailing.  His 
cf5niposed,  serious  manner  awed  Isaac,  and  made  him 
hate  him  more  than  e^er.  Thornton  discharged  his 
debts  contracted  with  money-lenders,  and  found 
enough  left  out  of  his  fathers  estate  to  pay  Isaac. 
Isaac  would  have  put  off  receiving  it.  —  "I  shall  never 
forget  your  kindness,"  said  Tom.  "  Hut  1  cannot  see 
why  you  would  keep  a  friend  under  sucii  an  obligation, 
and  that,  too,  unnecessarily,  and  against  his  will." 
Isaac  took  the  money  without  further  j^arley,  but  with  a 
resolution  of  perseverance  in  Tom's  ruin,  which,  in  a 
good  cause,  would  have  done  honour  to  a  saint. 

Thornton  passed  Henley's  house  more  than  once,  as 
he  strolled  out  at  night  ;  and  he  would  stand  and  look 
toward  it  till  the  bright  figure  of  her  hr  thought  on 
grew  luiriiiKJiis  to  his  mind;  and  lie  would  follow  it  till 
his  eyeballs  aclicd,  as  it  passed  oil"  into  the  darkness. 
The  passion  had  been  laid  for  a  tinw,  hnt  only  to  burst 


204  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

out  more  violently  than  ever.  Before,  it  took  posses- 
sion of  him  in  the  uproar  of  the  mind,  but  now  it  had 
become  mixed  with  his  deepest  sensations  and  most 
serious  thoughts. 

In  a  few  days  the  ship  bore  him  from  shore.  He 
was  gone  two  years ;  but  in  all  countries,  through  the 
hot  and  successful  fight,  in  storm  and  calm,  the  sense 
of  this  woman  clung  to  him  like  his  very  being.  And 
when  at  last  he  once  more  spied  the  gay  city  rising,  as 
it  were,  out  of  the  water,  he  leaped  like  a  child,  for  joy. 
"  Neither  man,  nor  land,  nor  sea,  shall  keep  me  from 
her  now.  Some  devil  may  have  possessed  me,  but  I 
cannot,  I  will  not,  struggle  any  longer.  She  's  mine, 
come  on  't  what  may."  And  he  was  given  over  to  his 
passions  with  little  to  thwart  them ;  for  he  found  the 
elegant  Mrs.  Henley  a  gay  and  splendid  widow. 

Thornton  had  returned,  it  was  true,  without  money, 
but  then  he  had  the  finest  face  and  figure  in  the  world, 
and  he  was  the  talk  of  everybody.  Besides,  as  fasci- 
nating as  the  widow  was,  few  men  liked  her  extrav- 
agant and  high  spirit. 

Isaac  put  in  for  her  favours,  and  was  repulsed.  He 
was  silent,  but  the  wound  rankled.  Old  Mr.  Beckford 
warned  Thornton.  Tom  was  offended,  and  avoided 
him ;  and  Isaac  helped  on  the  match  without  appear- 
ing to  do  so.  The  old  gentleman  gave  IVIrs.  Thornton 
notice;  and  she  wrote  to  her  son,  imploring  him  to 
come  to  her,  or,  at  least,  not  to  plunge  himself  head- 
long into  ruin.  She  called  upon  him  in  the  name  of 
his  father  and  as  he  cared  for  her  fife.  It  was  in  vain  : 
he  would  hear  notliing,  he  would  see  nothing ;  he  was 
married,  and  undone. 

For  a  time,  all  was  blaze  and  motion.  No  house 
was  furnished  like  the   dashing    Mrs.   Thornton's,  no 


TOM    THOKNTOX.  205 

parties  Iialf  so  splendid,  and  no  dinners  so  costly  and 
got  up  in  sueii  taste,  as  the  Thorntons',  and  no  one 
drove  sueii  a  four-in-hand.  And  it"  high  lite  may  in 
truth  l)e  called  lite,  no  one  knew  better  how  to  live 
than  the  Thorntons.  But  it  becomes  our  disease,  it 
breaks  up  our  thoughts,  and  kills  our  hearts,  and  makes 
what  should  be  individual  and  fresh  in  us  common  and 
stale.  Politeness  becomes  feigning,  and  the  play  of 
the  atfeetions  is  lost  in  the  practice  of  forms. 

Thornton  began  soon  to  lind  it  so;  and  to  relieve 
its  satiety,  he  pushed  farther  into  excesses.  A  kind  of 
feeling,  too,  rather  than  retlection,  was  growing  up  in 
him,  that  beauty,  and  high  spirits,  and  a  bright,  ready 
intellect  in  a  woman,  would  not  stand  in  the  stead  of 
principle,  and  delicacy,  and  a  fond  heart.  His  pride 
also  was  hurt,  that,  instead  of  being  looked  up  to  with 
kind  regard,  he  was  treated  rather  as  an  important  part 
in  a  splendid  establishment;  ihat  his  fine  person  was 
praised,  and  elegant  manners  admired,  and  even  his 
very  mind  valued,  just  so  far  as  they  served  for  an  orna- 
ment, and  a  help  to  notoriety. 

lie  received  frequent  letters  from  his  mother  com- 
plaining of  his  seldom  \\Titing,  and  of  his  not  coming 
to  visit  her  in  her  deserted  state.  She  spoke  of  her 
low  spirits,  her  feeble  health,  and  her  concern  for  him  ; 
and  melancholy  reflections  were  made,  of  a  general 
nature,  but  such  as  he  well  knew  how  to  apply  to  him- 
self. He  saw  that  her  love  of  him,  and  her  disappoint- 
ment and  anxiety,  were  wearing  her  away ;  and  the 
sad  thought  that  he  was  hurrying  her  to  the  grave 
crossed  him  in  his  riot  and  excess. 

His  power  over  himself  was  gone;  he  liad  become 
inoro  than  ever  the,  slave  of  his  passions,  and  they 
bore    him    along   with   a    never-resting   swiltness.      He 


vol..    I. 


JH 


206  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

found  the  woman,  for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  all  that 
was  worthy  in  his  character,  selfish  and  regardless  of 
his  feelings.  The  disappointment  made  him  hurry 
into  dissipation  with  the  craving  appetite  of  a  diseased 
man ;  and  Isaac  was  always  a  friend  at  hand,  to  assist 
him.  His  wife  was  no  less  extravagant  than  he ;  and 
at  last  came  borrowing  and  mortgages,  and  squander- 
ing seemed  to  increase  as  their  fortune  lessened.  He 
ran  into  gaming  to  retrieve  his  circumstances,  but  with 
galled  feelings  and  a  fevered  brain;  and  it  made  his 
condition  the  more  desperate. 

Isaac's  spirits  rose  as  he  saw  Thornton  sinking.  He 
assisted  him  as  before  in  procuring  loans,  and  lent  him 
money  besides.  "  The  day  is  near,"  said  Isaac  to 
himself,  "  in  which  I  shall  live  to  see  that  lordly  spmt 
brought  down.  And  my  other  end  shall  be  compassed, 
too,  let  it  cost  me  ever  so  dear.  Yes,  my  proud  madam 
must  be  supported  in  her  magnificence ;  but  the  scorned 
and  loathed  Isaac  must  be  wooed  then  like  the  dearest 
of  men.  What  care  I,  though  she  feign  it  like  the 
commonest  of  her  sex,  while  in  the  bitterness  of  her 
heart  she  secretly  curses  me  in  the  midst  of  it  ?  Does 
it  not  make  fuller  my  revenge  ?  " 

And  on  he  went,  wilily  and  playfully,  to  his  object. 
Though  he  had  a  spirit  of  avarice  not  to  be  glutted, 
yet  he  would  throw  out  his  wealth  like  water  to  sate 
his  hate  or  lust.  He  caused  information  of  Thornton's 
circumstances  to  be  given  to  one  of  the  creditors.  He 
took  care  to  be  at  the  house  when  service  was  made. 
Thornton's  wrath  was  beyond  all  bounds ;  he  threat- 
ened the  officer's  life,  swore  it  was  his  wife  who  had 
brought  him  to  disgrace  and  ruin,  and  cm-sed  his  folly 
that  he  had  ever  married.  She  said  something  snecr- 
ingly  about  half-pay  officers.  Tom's  eyes  flashed  fire, 
and  Isaac  became  mediator. 


TOM    THORNTON.  207 

"  Upon  my  word,  Thornton,  my  drar  IritMKl,  you 
must  command  yourself,  or  this  will  get  wind,  and  they 
will  be  on  you  like  harpies.  For  heaven's  sake,  com- 
mand yoiu-self.  My  dear  Sir,  how  great  is  the  debt  ? 
—  Upon  my  soul,  no  trilling  sum.  Let  me  see, —  I 
have  a  deposit  for  a  certain  purpose.  I  must  contrive 
to  meet  that  in  another  way ;  my  friend  must  not  be 
ruined  thus."  He  made  himself  answerable  to  the 
officer.  "  And  here,  Tom,  you  naist  give  this  as 
hush-money  to  the  man.  You  have  used  him  too 
roughly."    All  this  was  done  in  the  presence  of  the  wife. 

Aliairs  had  now  nearly  reached  the  worst;  and 
Thornton's  disappointments  and  troubles  had  almost 
made  a  madman  of  him.  When  heated  with  wine  or 
loss  at  play,  his  rage  made  him  dangerous,  and  he 
became  the  dread  of  his  companions.  Nothing  but 
Isaac's  plausible  and  smooth  manner  had  any  control 
over  him ;  and  with  Isaac,  Tiiornton  was  like  a  tiger 
with  his  keeper. 

Old  ]\Ir.  Beckford,  with  the  best  intentions,  frequently 
wrote  Tom's  mother  about  him.  It  only  served  to 
hasten  the  wretched  woman's  decline,  and  drive  him 
on  the  faster,  that  he  might  shake  off  the  remorse 
which  his  mother's  letters  caused  him. 

Isaac  never  shut  his  eyes  upon  his  object;  and  as 
Tom's  utter  ruin  drew  on,  and  the  time  had  nearly 
come  for  Isaac's  fulfilling  his  plans  and  accom))lishing 
his  last  wish,  it  required  all  the  hypocrisy  of  his  nature 
not  to  break  his  purj)ose  too  soon  to  the  wife.  He 
knew  that  he  had  no  strong  virtue  to  struggle  against, 
but  something  as  stubborn,  a  woman's  dislike.  And 
lir  plavfd  his  part  well;  In-  was  Inimldc,  lie  was  grieved 
for  their  situation,  he  spoke  timidly  of  his  long  contest 
with  himself  to  overcome  his  love  lor  li<r,  and  the  mis- 


208  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

ery  it  caused  him ;  and  shrunk  back  when  he  saw  scorn 
on  her  lip.  Then  he  spoke  of  his  fortune,  and  of  his 
wish  that  he  had  been  worthy  to  have  saved  such  a 
woman  from  poverty  and  the  neglect  which  a  hard 
world  might  one  day  show  her.  And  so  he  wound 
his  way. 

She  hid  not  her  contempt  from  him ;  she  scrupled  not 
to  say  that  it  was  dread  of  poverty  and  of  a  fall  from 
high  life,  that  made  her  yield  to  the  man  she  despised ; 
that  she  had  seen  through  his  designs  long  ago.  Still, 
he  supplied  her  with  money  to  support  her  extrava- 
gance; and  she  made  him  throw  her  husband's  obli- 
gations into  the  fire,  before  her,  with  his  own  hands. 
She  yielded,  and  the  man  obtained  that  for  which  he 
had  hunted  hard  for  years,  and  the  devil  had  his 
triumph. 

It  lasted  not  long.  Thornton's  suspicions  were 
awakened.  He  did  not  burst  out  in  fury.  Every 
passion  within  him  settled  down  into  a  deathlike  still- 
ness. His  mind  seemed  suddenly  to  take  the  shrewd- 
ness and  ingenuity  of  the  crazed  in  effecting  their 
object.  And  he  traced  out,  step  by  step,  the  windings 
of  the  subtle  Isaac. 

At  last,  he  tracked  him  to  the  place  of  assignation. 
The  entrance  was  barred.  He  broke  it  down  with  the 
strength  of  an  enraged  giant.  Isaac  fled  through 
another  passage  as  Thornton  entered.  Thornton  heed- 
ed not  his  wife ;  his  soul  was  bent  up  to  a  single  pur- 
pose, and  that  a  terrible  one,  and  he  saw  no  other  ob- 
ject in  the  world.  He  followed  with  the  speed  of  light- 
ning; but  passing  swiftly  by  a  narrow,  dark  side-pas- 
sage, through  which  Isaac  had  escaped,  missed  his 
prey.  He  wound  through  the  passages  of  the  house 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  bloodhound,  —  then  through 


TOM    THORNTON.  209 

the  by-lanes  of  the  city,  till  he  reached  Beckiord's  house. 
He  asked  the  servants,  in  a  composed  manner,  for  Mr. 
Beekford.  He  had  gone  out  some  time  before,  and 
had  not  returned.  Thornton  saw  that  they  were  not 
deceiving  him.  He  searched  for  him  through  the  city, 
and  returned  at  night  to  prepare  for  a  journey,  for  he 
then  concluded  that  Isaac  must  have  left  town.  In  a 
little  while  he  was  ready ;  but,  changing  his  mind 
again,  went  out  and  passed  the  night  in  further  search. 
Li  going  to  and  from  the  house,  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
sensible  of  the  absence  of  his  wife,  or  so  much  as  to 
recollect  that  he  had  one. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  he  learned  that  one  of 
Beckford's  best  horses  was  missing.  In  an  instant  he 
was  mounted,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight  of  the  city. 
Yet  he  could  only  conjecture  Isaac's  route.  He  con- 
tinued his  pursuit  till  about  nightfall,  in  silence,  and 
with  his  mind  full  of  undefined  thoughts  of  vengeance. 

He  was  riding  along  a  dangerous,  narrow  track,  near 
the  edge  of  a  precipice,  at  the  foot  of  which  was  run- 
ning a  deep,  swift  stream,  when,  just  as  he  was  turning 
the  corner  of  a  rock,  his  horse's  head  suddenly  crossed 
the  neck  of  another  horse,  held  by  a  man  who  was 
walking  cautiously  by  his  side.  Though  it  was  gi-ow- 
ing  dark  and  the  man  was  muilled,  Thornton  knew 
him  the  instant  his  eye  fell  upon  him;  and  springing 
to  the  ground  with  a  siiout,  he  stood  full  before  Isaac. 
The  great  coat  fell  from  Isaac's  ashy  face.  He  could 
neither  speai<  nor  move. 

"Have  I  you,  then?"  cried  Thornton,  grapi)iing  the 
trembling  wretch  by  the  throat,  and  lifting  him  straight 
oil'  his  feet.  lb"  gave  a  kern  glance  down  ihf  pr(>ci- 
pice,  without  speaking,  an<l  then  looked  doiiblingly. 
"  No.  no.  I  'II  not  t;ikc  ihr  d(.ir's  lilr  -o.  —  Mold!    tlicn"! 


210  TOM  THORNTON. 

you  curse  of  man ! "  said  he,  drawing  out  his  pistols, 
and  handing  one  to  Isaac.  Isaac  put  out  his  hand  to 
take  it,  without  seeming  to  be  conscious  of  what  was 
to  be  done.  "  Stand  there,"  said  Thornton,  "  and  make 
sure  your  aim,  for  the  last  hour  of  one  or  both  of  us  is 
come  !  "  —  Isaac's  hand  trembled  so  that  his  pistol  fell 
to  the  ground.  —  "  Have  ready,  man,  or  you  're  gone !  " 
screamed  Thornton,  frantic  with  rage.  Isaac  could 
not  move.  —  "  Down,  then ! "  he  cried ;  and  the  fire  of 
the  pistol  flashed  over  Isaac's  wild  eyes,  and  convulsed, 
open  jaws ;  his  arms  tossed  upward  in  the  agony  of 
terrour  and  death,  and  he  fell  over  into  the  stream.  His 
horse,  rearing  with  fright,  plunged  with  his  master. 

Thornton  looked  over  the  precipice.  Nothing  was 
to  be  seen  or  heard  but  the  whirl  and  rush  of  the  dark 
tide.  — "  And  can  we  go  so  quickly  from  life  to 
death  ?  "  he  muttered ;  "  why,  then,  should  a  man  live 
to  misery  ?  " 

He  turned  slowly  away.  The  longing  f»r  revenge 
was  satisfied,  and  he  was  now  left  feeble  as  a  child. 
He  mounted  his  horse  with  difliculty,  and  rode  home- 
ward, his  brain  stunned  with  horrour.  At  last  his 
mind  grew  slowly  more  distinct ;  and  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  what  had  passed  came  frightful  figures,  which 
fell  away,  then  suddenly  rose  again,  and  spread  them- 
selves close  before  him.  He  pressed  his  eyeballs  till 
they  darted  fire,  then  passed  his  hand  quickly  before 
his  face,  as  if  to  drive  away  what  he  saw;  but  the 
terrible  sights  returned  upon  him. 

He  delayed  going  into  the  city,  till  about  dark  tlie 
next  day.  As  he  entered  it,  the  sudden  change  from 
the  quiet  of  the  country  to  the  noise,  the  quick  and 
various  movements  of  the  crowd,  the  broken  lights 
and  shadow^s,  and   flare  of  lamps,  increased  the  confu- 


THE    IDLK    MAN.  211 

sion  of  his  iiiind,  till  it  sd  wandered,  that  lie  scarcely 
knew  where  he  was  when  he  reached  his  door. 

He  leaned  forward  on  his  horse  for  some  time,  trying 
to  regain  his  self-possession.  At  last,  looking  up  at 
the  house,  and  observing  that  it  was  quite  still  and 
dark,  the  thought  of  his  wife  crossed  him.  He  leaped 
from  his  horse,  and,  rushing  up  the  steps,  rang  violently 
at  the  door.  It  was  opened  cautiously  by  one  he  had 
never  seen  before ;  but  such  was  the  state  of  his  mind 
that  he  paid  no  regard  to  the  circumstance.  Throwing 
open  the  door  of  the  nearest  room,  he  found  it  stripped 
of  its  furniture.  He  hurried  from  room  to  room ;  all 
was  bare  and  deserted.  Tiie  truth  came  fully  upon 
hiiu,  —  a  desolate  house,  and  he  turned  away,  a  beggar, 
from  his  own  door. 

He  ran  toward  the  street  door,  scarcely  knowing 
whither  he  was  going,  when  he  was  arrested  by  a 
couple  of  men,  for  debt.  He  made  no  resistance,  but 
talking  incoherently  to  himself,  sutiered  them  to  carry 
him  peaceably  to  prison.  He  lay  down  upon  the  bed 
that  was  furnished  him,  and  soon  fell  asleep  as  cpiietly 
as  it  ill  liis  own  house;  for  both  bt)dv  and  mind 
had  lost  their  sensibility,  through  violent  eftort  and 
fatigue. 

The  sun  had  shot  into  his  prison  with  a  red  and 
dusty  ray  before  he  awoke ;  and  for  a  time  he  could 
not  recollect  where  he  was,  or  what  had  passed.  Pres- 
ently he  muttered  to  himself,  —  "In  prison,  and  for 
murder,  and  die  on  a  gallows!"  The  turning  of  the 
key  roused  him  a  little.  "  INIy  brain  's  disordered." 
A  man  handed  him  a  letter  and  left  tiie  room.  He 
gazed  on  it  for  a  while  without  noticing  whose  hand 
it  was.  "  Mv  (Jod.  iiiv  iiintlicr!"  criiHl  he,  at  last; 
••rind  aiii    I  to  l»c  voiii   miinl<rtr  Un)'" 


212  TOM  THORNTON. 

Mrs.  Thornton  had  heard  from  old  Mr.  Beckford  of 
the  attachment  laid  upon  her  son's  property  immedi- 
ately after  his  leaving  the  city,  and  she  had  \\'Titten  in 
a  state  of  mind  that  showed  she  could  not  much 
longer  endure  her  sufferings.  Mr.  Beckford,  at  her 
earnest  request,  had  gone  to  her.  His  nephew  had  left' 
town  unexpectedly;  but  the  only  suspicion  was  that 
he  had  fled  with  Mrs.  Thornton,  and  that  her  husband 
had  now  returned  after  an  unsuccessful  search.  Thorn- 
ton's anguish  was  dreadful,  —  his  mother  dangerously 
ill,  and  made  so  by  him,  and  yet  he  not  allowed  to  see 
her !  — "  She  will  die,  believing  that  I  cared  not  for 
her;  and  yet  I  dare  not  let  her  know  why  I  cannot 
see  her." 

In  a  day  or  two  came  another  letter,  and  from  Mr. 
Beckford ;  for  the  mother  was  too  feeble  to  write. 
Thornton's  impatience  was  now  almost  maddening. 
At  times  he  raved  like  a  maniac,  then  suddenly  sank 
down  into  a  state  of  torpor,  till  the  remembrance  of 
his  father,  his  leaving  home,  the  misery  he  had  brought 
upon  himself  and  his  friends,  again  rushed  upon  him. 
Then  would  suddenly  appear  the  face  of  Isaac,  as  he 
saw  him  die ;  and  he  would  spring  up  and  stand  as  if 
frozen  with  horrom". 

This  was  not  to  endure  long.  Mr.  Beckford  wTote 
a  letter  to  him,  stating  that  his  release  was  procured, 
and  urging  him  to  set  off  immediately  by  the  convey- 
ance furnished ;  for  that  his  mother,  unfortunately,  had 
heard  of  his  imprisonment,  and  that  the  shock  had 
been  a  violent  one  to  her,  in  her  weak  condition. 

Thornton  was  standing  in  a  state  of  apparent  insen- 
sibility when  the  keeper  entered.  He  did  not  notice 
that  any  one  was  in  the  room ;  but  when  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  letter,  as  it  was  handed  to  him,  he  seized  it 


TO^t    THORNTON.  213 

as  a  caged  lion  woiild  his  food.  He  ran  his  fiery  eyes 
over  it,  then  sliook  it  from  his  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a 
snake  lie  held.  ''  This  is  not  her  blood,"  muttered  he, 
looking  closely  at  one  hand,  IIkmi  at  the  other,  as  if 
counting  the  spots.  "  No,  no,  this  is  Isaac's, —  I  know 
it  well,  —  my  old  school-fellow,  Isaac's  blood."  He 
stood  a  few  minutes  perfectly  still,  then  pressed  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if  trying  to  recollect  himself. 
"  Where  have  I  been  ?  —  Ha  I  I  remember  now." 

"  J\Iy  horse,  my  horse  I  —  Is  he  ready  ?  "  he  asked 
eagerly  of  the  servant,  who  was  entering  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  At  the  gate,  Sir.     But  you  are  not  ready." 

"  True,  true  I "  And  he  suffered  the  man  to  equip 
him.  He  looked  at  himself  for  a  moment,  as  if  not 
knowing  for  what  purpose  he  was  so  dressed.  Then, 
as  the  thought  struck  him,  he  darted  out  of  the  prison, 
and  running  to  the  gate,  threw  himself  upon  the  beast, 
and  dasliing  the  rowels  into  his  sides,  was  out  of  sight 
in  an  instant. 

There  was  now  but  one  purpose  in  his  mind,  and  he 
clung  to  it  with  a  spasmodic  grasp  ;  and  the  speed 
with  which  he  rode,  and  his  intense  eagerness,  nearly 
fired  his  brain.  His  eye  was  fixed  on  home ;  he  saw 
nothing  round  him  ;  he  minded  not  hill  or  hollow. 

The  horse's  nostrils  shut  and  dilated  fast,  and  llie 
sweat  ran  down  his  hoofs,  when  Thornton  came  in 
sight  of  the  house.  Once  more  he  urged  him  on,  and 
then  reached  the  door.  He  tossed  the  reins  on  the 
neck  of  the  panting  beast,  anti  throwing  himsell  oil", 
was  in  an  instant  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Thc^ 
chamber  door  was  shut.  As  lie  Hung  it  open,  he 
ruslu'd  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed.  ( )n  it  lay,  with  a 
white    sheet    over    it,    the    ec^rpse    of  his    mother.      His 


214  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

hands  spread,  his  eyes  glared  wide,  and  his  hair  stood 
on  end.  One  shudder  passed  through  his  frame,  as  if 
it  would  have  snapped  every  stretched  fibre.  Tearing 
with  a  grasp  the  hair  from  his  head,  he  gave  a  shriek, 
enough  to  have  awakened  the  dead,  and  ran,  mad,  from 
the  chamber. 

Old  Mr.  Beckford,  hearing  a  noise  overhead,  stepped 
to  the  parlour  door,  and  saw  Thornton  coming  down 
stairs.  He  called  out.  Thornton  answered  not  a 
word,  but  rushed  by  him,  the  hair  in  his  clinched 
fingers.  As  he  passed,  he  turned  his  eyes  on  the  old 
man,  —  the  sockets  sent  out  nothing  but  flame.  The 
old  gentleman  followed,  trembhng,  to  the  door,  and 
looked  out,  but  he  was  gone.  The  noise  came  and 
went  like  a  thunder-clap,  and  all  was  still  again. 

He  pushed  eagerly  on,  not  regarding  whither  he  was 
going;  and  the  horse  took  the  same  course  Thornton 
did  the  first  time  he  left  home. 

At  last  he  struck  upon  the  heath,  and  rode  onward 
till  he  came  where  the  way  forked.  His  recollection 
returned  at  once.  He  checked  his  horse  suddenly,  and 
looked  over  the  track  he  had  once  passed.  His  lip 
quivered,  and  tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  "  Ages  of  mis- 
ery have  rolled  over  me  since  then,"  said  he,  looking 
forward  upon  the  track  till  it  was  lost  in  the  distance. 
"  To  the  left,  to  the  left  I  "  cried  he  to  his  horse,  press- 
ing him  on ;  "  for  that,  I  then  said,  was  ill  omen,  and 
it  suits  me  now." 

After  Mr.  Beckford  had  laid  the  unhappy  mother 
in  her  grave,  and  had  sent  in  all  directions  to  gain 
information  concerning  her  son,  he  went  to  the  city  to 
make  inquiries  about  his  nephew. 

The  horse  wqj^  v^ashed  up  near  the  precipice,  but 
Isaac's  body  was  never  found.     It  was  supposed  that 


TOM    THORNTON.  215 

the  animal  had  taken  fright,  and  had  lalleu  with  his 
rider  into  the  stream. 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  soon  heard  of  as  appearing  the 
dasliing  mistress  of  a  young  man  in  a  distant  city. 
Her  extravagance  and  violent  temper  caused  frequent 
changes  in  this  sort  of  connection,  and  she  soon  sank 
down  into  the  lowest  class  of  females  of  her  order,  and 
died  as  they  die. 

As  no  account  of  Thornton  could  be  gained,  it  was 
conjectured  that  he  had  either  destroyed  himself,  or 
had  wandered  away  a  maniac.  It  was  autumn  when 
he  disappeared ;  the  winter  had  set  in  stormy  and  cold, 
and  some  supposed  he  migiit  have  perished. 

In  the  early  jjart  of  the  day,  towards  the  close  of 
spring,  as  the  widow  Wentw^orth  was  taking  care  of 
a  brood  of  chickens  just  hatched,  a  man  in  a  fisher's 
garb  drove  u{)  to  her  door.  He  was  seated  in  a  light 
cart,  old  and  shattered,  and  drawn  by  a  small,  lean 
horse.  TL'  inquired  wliether  she  could  inform  him 
where  lived  a  woman  of  the  name  of  Wentworth. 

"  It  is  for  me  you  are  looking,  I  suppose,  good  man. 
What  is  your  will  ?  " 

"  I  would  ask  you  to  give  me  a  morsel,"  said  he, 
getting  down  from  his  cart,  "  before  I  tell  my  errand ; 
for  I  have  ridden  ever  since  daybreak,  and  it  has  been 
but  a  chilly  morning." 

After  finishing  his  meal,  he  began  as  follows:  — 
"  There  was  a  strange  young  man  made  his  appear- 
ance in  our  parts  last  autumn  ;  and  he  has  been  there- 
abouts up  to  this  time.  It 's  clear  that  he  's  not  alto- 
gether right  here,"  said  the  man,  touching  his  fore- 
head ;  "  but  then  he  would  iiarm  nobody,  and  kept 
wandering  about  all  alone ;  and  so  we  never  troubled 
him." 


216  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  Well,  what  of  him  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  eagerly  ; 
for  she  immediately  conjectured  who  it  might  be. 

"  I  fear  he  's  dying,"  said  the  man.  "  He  was  not 
-seen  all  along  shore  for  many  days,  and  some  of  ns 
went  to  his  hut ;  and  there  he  was  lying,  looking  like 
one  of  the  dead.  But  he  was  sensible  enough  then, 
and  begged  that  we  would  find  a  widow  of  the  name 
of  Wentworth,  (who  I  thought  from  his  account  must 
live  hereabouts,)  and  bring  her  to  him  before  he  died ; 
'  for,'  said  he,  '  she  is  the  only  one  of  all  the  living  that 
has  any  love  for  me.' " 

"  And  did  he  tell  his  name  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  man.  "  We  asked  him ;  but  he  said 
it  was  no  matter,  and  that  you  would  remember  him  to 
whom  you  told  your  story,  and  talked  so  holily  when 
the  sun  was  going  down.  '  She  '11  not  have  forgotten 
it,'  he  said,  '  as  I  did,  when  I  most  needed  it.'  " 

"  And  think  you  he  's  dying  ? "  asked  she.  — "  It 
matters  not,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"  There  must  be  life  in  him  yet,"  replied  the  fisher. 

"  I  saw  the  tear  in  his  eye,"  she  continued  to  herself. 
"  when  I  told  him  of  Sally ;  and  I  have  talked  with 
him  by  her  grave  ;  and  I  will  lay  him  in  the  ground, 
too,  when  he  dies.  —  Which  way,  and  how  far  is  it,  to 
the  place,  good  man  ?  " 

"  A  dozen  miles,  or  so,  due  east,  as  I  guess." 

"  How  am  I  to  get  there  and  back  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  With  me,"  he  answered ;  "  for  this  is  the  only 
coach  in  all  our  neck  of  land,  and  this  the  only  steed, 
ragged  as  he  looks,  except  the  poor  young  man's ;  and 
he  's  in  no  better  condition  now." 

The  old  woman,  having  found  a  friend  to  take  charge 
of  her  house,  began  her  journey. 

"  We  were  all  out  a  fishing,  except  our  old  woman," 


TOM    THOHNTON,  217 

said  the  man,  as  they  rode  along.  "  When  we  got 
back,  she  told  us  that  a  young  man,  a  gentleman,  and 
well  dressed,  liad  been  to  the  hut  two  or  three  times 
lor  food,  and  that  he  always  took  it  away  with  him. 
She  would  not  receive  his  money,  for  he  appeared  not 
to  be  in  iiis  right  mind.  But  he  )iever  faih'd  leaving 
some  on  the  table.  Wiiether  or  not  he  knew  of  our 
return  I  can't  say;  but  we  saw  nothing  of  him,  till 
one  day,  passing  an  old  hut  which  wc  had  left  for  a 
better,  we  spied  him  sitting  at  the  door,  and  his  horse 
feeding  on  the  coarse  grass  near  it.  As  soon  as  he  dis- 
covered us  he  went  in,  and  he  ever  shunned  Tis.  We 
have  seen  him  looking  for  shell-fish  among  the  rocks, 
and  carrying  home  wreck-wood  for  firincf.  How,  with 
that  little,  he  kept  himself  warm  through  the  nights  of 
winter,  I  cannot  tell.  And  for  aught  we  could  find, 
dried  sea-weed  must  have  been  his  bedding.  Wc  have 
sometimes  left  food  near  his  hut,  and  his  horse  used 
now  and  then  to  share  the  scant  fare  of  this  pony 
here;  for  I  could  not  l)ut  pity  him,  though  a  beast, 
when  the  sleet  drove  sharp  against  him." 

As  they  drew  near  the  shore,  a  heavy  sea-fog  was 
setting  in.  In  a  few  minutes  the  sun  was  hid,  and  the 
damp  stood  on  the  nag's  long,  shaggy  coat,  like  rain- 
drops. They  soon  heard  the  low  growl  of  the  sea;  and 
lurning  a  high  point  of  land,  they  saw  near  them  mul- 
titudes of  breakers,  foaming  and  roaring,  and  flinging 
themselves  ashore  like  sea-monsters  after  their  prey. 

They  were  descending  slowly  through  the  heavy 
sands  to  the  beach,  when  Ihey  heard  two  persons  call- 
iiig  to  each  other  in  a  shar|)  key.  The  voices  sounded 
as  at  a  distance;  l)i7t  in  a  moment  they  saw  just 
ahead  of  tlieni,  and  coiniiig  towards  them  ont  of  the 
spray    and    inist,    ;i    man    in    :i    sailor's    jacket,    and    a 

vol..  I.  Ill 


218  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

woman  in  one  of  the  same,  with  a  man's  hat  fastened 
under  her  chin  by  a  red  handkerchief.  A  startling,  mys- 
terious feeling  passed  over  the  old  woman,  as  if  those 
she  saw  were  something  more  than  human,  and  were 
given  another  nature  to  be  dwellers  in  the  sea. 

"  Is  there  life  in  him  ? "  cried  her  guide,  as  they 
passed.  —  "  Scant  alive,"  called  out  the  woman.  The 
old  widow  looked  back.  They  had  passed  into  the 
mist  again,  and  were  out  of  sight. 

They  had  not  ridden  far  along  the  beach,  before  the 
fog  began  to  break  away,  and  the  sea  and  sand  flashed 
upon  them  with  a  blinding  brightness.  They  dragged 
on  a  mile  or  two  farther,  when  the  sky  became  gloomy, 
and  the  wind  began  to  rise. 

"  And  is  all  as  desolate  as  this  ? "  asked  the  old 
woman,  looking  over  the  shapeless  sand-hills,  which 
stretched  away,  one  behind  another,  without  end,  and 
seeming  as  if  heaved  up  and  washed  by  the  sea,  then 
left  bare  to  sight. 

"  There  is  little  that 's  better,"  answered  the  man. 

"  And  have  you  no  other  grovd;h  than  this  yellowish, 
reedy  grass,  that  spears  up  so  scantily  out  of  these  hills 
of  sand?" 

"  'T  is  not  so  ill  a  sight  to  us,  either,  who  have  noth- 
ing greener,"  answered  the  man,  a  little  hurt.  "  And 
there  's  a  bright  red  berry  that  looks  gay  enough 
amongst  it.  But  peace  I  for  here  's  the  hut  of  the 
dying  man." 

It  was  of  rough  boards,  some  of  which  hung  loose 
and  creaking  in  the  wind.  It  was  turned  almost  black, 
except  on  the  side  towards  the  sea,  which  shone  with  a 
grayish  crust ;  and  a  corner  of  a  decayed  chimney  was 
seen  coming  out  but  a  little  above  the  roof.  On  the 
ridge  of  one  of  the  sand-hills  by  the  house  stood,  with 


TOM    THORNTON.  219 

his  drooping  head  from  them,  the  starved,  sharp-boned 
horse,  the  sand  whirling  ronnd  him  like  drifting  snow. 
"Poor  fellow  I"  said  the  man;  "when  I  first  saw  him, 
he  was  full  of  mettle,  and  smiffed  the  air,  and  looked 
with  prieked  ears  and  wild  eyes  out  upon  the  sea,  as 
if  he  would  bound  over  it.'' 

The  old  woman  opened  the  door  cautiously.  A 
gray-headed  man  was  sitting  by  a  sort  of  crib  of  rough 
boards,  in  whieh  lay  Thornton,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
cheek  hollow  and  pale,  and  his  mouth  relaxed  and 
open. 

"  Is  this  he,"  said  she  to  herself,  as  she  looked  upon 
him,  "  of  the  burning  eye  and  hot  cheek  and  firm-set 
mouth,  of  fiery  and  untamed  passions  ?  I  did  not 
look  to  see  you  come  to  such  an  end,  much  as  I  feared 
for  you.  May  your  suflerings  here  be  some  atonement 
for  your  sins.  All  was  not  evil  in  you.  Many  have 
died  happier  than  you  who  had  less  of  good  in  them, 
and  have  left  a  better  name  behind  than  you  will 
leave."  A  tear  dropped  from  her  on  his  forehead.  He 
opened  his  eyes  sleepily  upon  her.  The  colour  came 
to  his  cheek;  he  lifted  his  hand  to  hers  with  a  weak 
motion,  and  looked  towards  the  old  man.  —  "  Leave  us 
alone  for  a  while,"  said  the  widow. 

He  spoke.  "  I  have  been  a  sinful  man,"  he  said, 
in  a  faint,  broken  voice.  He  paused,  and  his  look 
became  wild.  "My  father,  —  and  Isaac,  Isaac,  —  he 
fell,  — and  my  mother.  Did  I  kill  them  all?"  His 
eyes  appeared  to  fasten  on  an  object  in  the  distance. 
He  then  closed  his  lids  liurd,  as  if  trying  to  shut  out 
something  frightful. 

"  What  looked  you  at?"  asked  the  widow. 

"  O,  you  could  not  see  licr.  Slic  is  seen  of  none 
but  me.     I've  looked  upon  the  sight  a  thousand  times. 


220  THE  IDLE    MAN. 

I  've  seen  her  shrouded  body  rising  and  falling  with 
the  waves,  stretched  out  as  it  was  on  her  death-bed  ; 
and  it  has  bent  not,  and  it  has  floated  nearer  and 
nearer  to  me,  till  I  could  look  no  longer.  And  there, 
too,  has  she  stood  for  hours,  on  that  small  white  rock 
yonder,  that  rises  out  of  the  sea,"  said  he,  trying  eager- 
ly to  raise  himself  and  look  out  towards  it.  "  Yes, 
there  has  she  stood,  beckoning  me,  when  the  sun  beat 
upon  it;  and  I  was  made  to  look  on  it  till  its  glare 
turned  all  around  me  black.  I  've  tried  to  rush  into 
the  sea  to  her,  though  the  waves  ran  so  heavy  between 
us  ;  but  I  was  held  back  till  the  sweat  streamed  down 
my  body  and  I  fell  on  the  sand."  He  gasped  for  breath, 
and  lay  panting.  At  last  he  recovered  a  little,  and, 
opening  his  eyes,  looked  slowly  about  him.  His  lips 
moved.  The  old  woman  bent  over  him,  and  heard  him 
breathe  out,  "  God  forgive  my  sins ! " 

"  God  will  forgive  the  repentant,  however  wicked 
they  have  been,"  said  the  widow.  He  gave  a  look 
of  hope.  —  "I 've  asked  it  of  Him  day  and  night,  when 
I  had  my  mind ;  I  've  prayed  to  Him,  stretched  on  the 
bare,  cold  rocks,  and  when  I  dared  not  look  up.  Will 
not  you  pray  for  me  ?  Will  none  of  the  good  pray 
for  me  ?  " 

She  knelt  down  by  him,  with  her  hands  clasped,  and 
looked  upward.  There  was  an  agony  of  soul  for  a 
moment,  —  she  could  not  speak.  The  tears  rolled 
down  her  wrinkled  cheeks,  and  then  she  prayed  aloud. 
And  from  the  shore  went  up  a  prayer  fervent  and  holy 
as  ever  ascended  from  the  house  of  God.  And  the 
dying  man  prayed  with  her,  in  the  spirit.  She  ended, 
and,  laying  her  hand  on  his  forehead,  said,  in  a  solemn 
voice,  "  My  son,  I  trust  there  is  mercy  for  you  with 
God." 


TOM    THORNTON.  221 

He  looked  upward  and  tried  to  clasp  his  hands.  It 
was  his  last  eftbrt,  and  he  sank  away  with  a  counte- 
nance as  placid  as  if  falling  into  a  gentle  sleep. 

The  old  widow  stood  for  a  few  minutes  gazing  on 
the  lifeless  body.  At  last  she  said  to  herself,  without 
turning  away,  —  "  He  must  not  be  laid  here,  as  an  out- 
cast ;  for  the  sands  will  drive  over  him,  and  there  will 
be  no  mark  where  he  rests.  I  will  take  him  with  me, 
and  lay  him  by  the  stream  near  my  home.  And,  when 
I  die,  I  will  be  gathered  with  him  and  with  my  child 
to  one  grave." 


19 


EDWARD    AND    MARY 


O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resemblelh 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day ; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

Why,  man,  she  is  mine  own  ; 
And  I  as  rich,  in  having  such  a  jewel, 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 

Same. 


To  love  deeply  and  to  believe  our  love  returned,  and 
yet  to  be  sensible  that  we  should  not  make  our  love 
known,  is  a  hard  trial.  It  asks  the  more  of  us,  because 
the  passion  is  one  of  the  most  secret  in  our  natures.  All 
sympathy  is  distasteful  except  that  of  one  being,  and 
that,  in  such  a  case,  we  must  deny  ourselves.  In  our 
sorrow  at  the  loss  of  friends,  though  we  shun  direct 
and  proffered  consolations,  we  love  the  assuagings 
which  another's  pity  administers  to  us,  in  the  gentle 
tones,  mild  manners,  kind  looks,  and  nameless  little 
notices  which  happen  in  the  numberless  affairs  of  daily 
life.  But  the  man  who  loves  and  is  unhappy  starts 
at  a  soothing  voice  as  if  he  were  betrayed ;  eyes,  turned 
in  affectionate  regard  upon  him,  seem  to  search  his 
heart;  his  way  is  not  in  the  path  of  other  men,  and 
his  suffering  must  be  borne  unseen  and  alone. 


edwahu  and  makv.  223 

This  severance  from  the  world,  this  desertion  of  in- 
tercourse with  man,  ^ivcs  a  bitterness  to  grief,  greater, 
perhaps,  than  that  which  any  other  tronbh*  in  life  par- 
takes of.  Yet  here,  we  drink  of  it  ourselves  ;  make  our 
own  solitude,  root  up  the  flowers  in  it,  and  watch  them 
as  they  wither ;  we  lay  it  bare  of  beauty  and  empty  it 
of  life,  and  then  feel  as  if  others  had  spoiled  us  and 
left  us  to  perish.  Relief  from  other  troubles  may  be 
found  in  society  and  employment;  but  unprosperous 
love  goes  everywhere  with  a  man ;  his  thoughts  arc  for 
ever  upon  it ;  it  is  in  him  and  around  him  like  the  air, 
breaking  his  night-rest,  and  causing  him  to  hide  himself 
from  the  morning  light.  The  music  of  the  open  sky 
sings  a  dirge  over  his  joys,  and  the  strong  trees  of  the 
forest  droop  over  the  grave  of  all  he  holds  dear. 

Thwarted  love  is  more  romantic  than  even  that 
which  is  blessed ;  the  imagination  grows  forgetive,  and 
the  mind  idles,  in  its  melancholy,  among  fantastic 
shapes ;  all  it  hears  or  sees  is  turned  to  its  own  uses, 
taking  new  forms  and  new  relations,  and  multiplying 
without  end  ;  and  it  wanders  oft'  amongst  its  own  cre- 
ations, which  crowd  thicker  round  it  the  farther  it  goes, 
till  it  loses  sight  of  the  world,  and  becomes  bewildered 
in  the  many  and  uneven  paths  that  itself  had  trodden 
out. 

Edward  Shiiu-ey  was  of  a  grave  cast  of  character, 
nmch  absorbed  in  liis  own  feelings,  yet  with  a  strong 
affection  for  the  few  whom  his  reserve,  and  what  some 
would  call  his  prejudices,  allowed  him  to  take  as  inti- 
mates. He  had  read  so  much  of  wrong,  and  had 
learned  to  think  that  there  was  so  little  of  true  delieacy 
and  deep  and  enduring  love  amongst  men  to  answer 
io  what  he  felt  within  hims«'lf,  Ijiat  lie  was  sensible  of 
something  like  a  distastt^  for  the  world  at  large      But 


224  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

this  did  not  beget,  as  is  too  common,  a  feeling  of  supe- 
riority, but  rather  of  depression ;  and,  as  is  usual  in 
such  cases,  his  affections  fastened  themselves  upon 
what  could  not  break  in  upon  his  train  of  thought,  and 
turned  more  and  more  towards  inanimate  objects  and 
brutes.  He  was  much  in  the  fields ;  the  beauties  of 
nature  made  his  chief  pleasures  ;  he  was  open  to  their 
purifying  influences ;  and  the  innocence  which  God 
seemed  to  have  stamped  upon  them  was  almost  re- 
ligion to  him. 

But  we  are  made  for  other  purposes  than  to  have  our 
interests  begin  and  end  in  these ;  and  he  who  has  let 
his  affections  grow  where  the  brooks  run,  and  the  buds 
are  opening  to  the  sun,  will  find  at  last  that  the  love  of 
some  human  being  wUl  twine  the  closer  because  of  it 
about  his  heart,  and  other  joys  and  sorrows  than  those 
he  had  fostered  under  the  blue  sky  enter  the  deeper 
into  his  soul. 

It  has  been  said  that  no  man  of  genius  or  sentiment 
ever  lived  to  twenty  years  without  being  in  love.  It  is 
in  some  sense  true ;  for  if  he  does  not  find  a  hving  idol, 
he  will  make  one  to  himself,  and  be  a  fervent  wor- 
shipper of  that.  When  Edward  was  asked  how  it  hap- 
pened that  such  a  romantic  youth  as  he  had  never 
been  in  love,  he  answered,  "  I  have  been  so,  and  for  a 
long  time,  but  my  mistress  is  here,  in  the  brain,  and  it  is 
the  only  one  I  shall  ever  make  knee  to ;  for,"  he  added, 
"  the  only  woman  that  I  could  love  must  come  so  nigh 
in  all  high  qualities  to  her  who  lives  in  my  imagina- 
tion, that,  did  she  really  live,  she  would  scarcely  deign 
to  look  upon  such  a  thing  as  I  am;  so,  as  for  real 
women,  I  think  not  of  them."  This  he  said  with  a 
smile,  but  with  a  somewhat  heavy  heart;  for  there 
we»'f'  strong  cravings  of  the  afiections,  and  he  felt  daily 


EDWARD    AND    MARY. 


225 


more  and  more  the  inanity  of  life.  As  he  patted  tlie 
head  of  his  brothers  boy,  he  said  to  himself,  "  Am  I 
never  to  be  a  father  ?  And  shall  I  die  and  leave  no 
child  to  bless  me  ?  Shall  I  go  out  of  the  world  with 
no  one  of  all  the  living  to  feel  a  peculiar  grief  for 
me  ?  "  The  time,  however,  was  at  hand,  when  Edward 
was  to  learn  that  real  love  was  a  more  serious  thing 
than  that  love  which  the  imagination  conjures  up. 

Mrs.  Aston,  with  her  daughter  Mary,  had  lately  taken 
a  house  near  the  estate  of  Edw^ard's  father.  She  was 
left  with  an  income  so  small  as  to  require  of  her  the 
most  simple  mode  of  life  ;  and  her  grief  at  the  death  of 
her  husband  had  so  absorbed  other  feelings,  as  to  ren- 
der this  no  hardship  to  her. 

The  father  of  Mr.  Aston  left  a  good  estate,  but  a 
great  number  of  children.  The  son  married  young, 
during  his  father's  life,  with  no  definite  views  of  the 
means  of  supporting  a  family.  He  had  been  used  to 
plenty  and  elegance  at  home,  and,  like  most  young 
men,  never  once  considered  how  small  an  estate  a 
division  of  his  father's  property  wxiuld  leave  him. 

Soon  after  his  father's  death,  he  found  that  his  estate 
was  diminishing,  wliile  he  had  a  wife  and  children  to 
support.  Being  but  little  acquainted  with  the  world, 
his  plans  were  badly  laid  and  worse  managed  ;  poverty 
was  eating  in  upon  him,  not  rajjidly,  but  as  surely  and 
fatally  as  the  sea  gains  upon  the  shore;  and  his  spirits 
began  to  forsake  him  almost  as  fast  as  his  actjuaiiit- 
ances  and  friends.  TlKUigh  he  had  never  rested  his 
hapijiness  upon  society  at  large,  nor  estimated  himself 
by  its  opinions,  yet  remembered  courtesies,  taken  with 
present  neglect,  went  to  his  heart,  when  he  thought  of 
hia  wife  and  children  ;iii(l  looked  forward  to  what 
awaited  them.     He  grew  languid  in  body,  and  brooded 


226  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

over  immediate  and  dreaded  evils,  till  a  gloom  settled 
down  upon  his  mind,  and  his  faculties  seemed  falling 
into  a  kind  of  uneasy  sleep.  He  was  roused  from  this 
for  a  short  time,  by  the  last  feeble  and  irregular  efforts 
of  worn-out  nature.  As  he  sat  in  the  easy-chair  by  his 
bed,  a  few  days  before  his  death,  there  was  a  tran- 
quillity in  his  voice  and  manner,  and  a  benign  com- 
posure in  his  countenance,  as  if  the  inspiring  light  of 
the  world  to  which  he  w^as  going  had  already  entered 
into  his  soul.  As  his  wife  gave  him  his  cordial,  he  said, 
— "  Heaven  seems  to  have  ordained  it  in  mercy  to 
those  we  love,  that  we  should  need  their  care  so  much, 
and  ask  of  them  so  many  attentions,  in  our  last  hours. 
It  breaks  in  upon  the  thought  that  would  otherwise 
fasten  wholly  on  the  loss  they  must  soon  bear ;  and 
their  affliction  is  a  little  soothed,  so  long  as  they 
administer  good  and  ease  to  those  who  are  about  to 
die.  And  I  feel,"  he  added,  "  how  much,  as  the  last 
and  true  tokens  of  love,  they  take  from  the  bitterness 
of  the  separation  which  death  makes  sooner  or  later 
between  us  all." 

*'  Why  do  you  talk  thus,  Alfred  ? "  she  asked. 
"  You  have  been  much  stronger  for  two  days  past. 
Hopes  of  better  years  than  those  gone  will  be  medi- 
cine to  you.  And  why  should  you  not  hope  ?  A 
change  may  come  for  you  as  well  as  others  ;  and  those 
who  knew  your  father  may  do  a  kind  office  to  his  son, 
be  it  but  in  honour  of  his  memory." 

"  There  is  but  one  change  for  me,  my  love  ;  and  as 
to  the  dead,  their  good  deeds  go  out  of  the  memory  of 
this  world,  as  surely  as  they  themselves  enter  into  an- 
other. The  concerns  of  the  world  are  ever  shifting  its 
interests  and  relations ;  and  he  who  was  in  regard  yes- 
terday will  not  be  thought  of  to-morrow.     But  though 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  227 

there  is  too  mucli  of  l"ori2;et fulness  and  selfishness 
amongst  men,  I  would  not  blame  them  now,  nor  ques- 
tion the  providence  of  God,  which  out  of  this  evil 
brings  good,  by  making  men  active  and  considerate  of 
ends.  Let  me  rather  take  blame  to  myself ;  for  though 
it  may  be  from  a  defect  of  natiu"e  in  me,  and  not  from 
any  want  of  disposition  or  endeavour,  that  my  con- 
dition in  life  has  been  a  hard  one,  yet  I  might  have 
known  my  weakness,  and  have  avoided  a  responsibility 
I  could  not  answer.  To  love  you  as  I  have  done,  from 
the  time  I  first  saw  you  to  this  my  last  hour,  has  sure- 
ly been  no  crime  in  me;  and  if  making  that  love  known 
to  you,  and  shutting  my  eyes  on  those  consequences  I 
should  have  foreseen,  has  been  a  fault  in  me,  the  suf- 
ferings I  have  undergone  will,  I  trust,  be  some  atone- 
ment for  it. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  turning  towards  them,  "  be- 
ware lest  the  ingenuity  of  men  lead  you  to  act  against 
what  you  feel  to  be  a  virtuous  impulse,  lor  there  is  al- 
most as  much  errour  of  the  head  as  of  the  heart  in 
man.  At  the  same  time,  do  not  trust  w^holly  to  what 
seem  innocent  impulses,  especially  wiien  they  fall  in 
with  your  desires;  for  what  is  in  itself  innocent  may 
become  evil  from  the  relation  it  may  hold  to  others;  so 
that  it  is  not  enough  to  consider  it  abstractly,  but  to 
cast  about  and  ask  yourselves  what  may  be  its  effect  in 
new  connections  now  and  in  futiure.  Guide  in  this 
way  your  virtues  by  your  wisdom,  and  you  will  have 
much  of  deep  enjoyment  now,  and  little  to  repent  of 
hereafter," 

'J'hough  this  was  a  scene  of  severe  grief,  (for  Mr. 
Aston  was  loved  by  his  wife  and  children  with  an  ar- 
dour and  sincerity  which  few  deserve  or  enjoy,)  yet  the 
composure  of  his  maimer  tranciuiliizixl  them,  and  their 
t<*ars  fell  in  silence. 


228  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  I  have  talked  too  much,  and  must  lie  down." 
They  helped  him  to  his  bed ;  and  he  soon  fell  into  a 
gentle  sleep,  with  his  wife's  hand  in  his,  and  never 
waked  again. 

As  soon  as  the  painful  concerns  following  Mr.  As- 
ton's  death  were  closed,  his  widow  moved  to  the  house 
spoken  of.  It  was  a  place  not  without  its  many  recol- 
lections to  her,  for  she  had  been  often  in  it  when  a 
child,  and  had  frequently  met  Mr.  Aston  there  when 
he  was  a  cheerful  young  man. 

Entering  a  dwelling  in  which  we  had  lived  many 
years  ago,  brings  together  the  past  and  present  with  a 
distinctness  nothing  else  can.     It  is  with  some  tinge  of 
melancholy,  even  to  those  who  have  prospered  in  the 
world ;  for  let  that  world  have  gone  with  us  as  well  as 
it  may,  more  of  disappointments  and  troubles  than  of 
pleasures  come  to  our  minds  at  such  a  time ;  and  those 
pleasures  which  are  remembered  as  having  happened 
in   the    spot  we   stand  on   are  thought  of,  not  as   so 
many  which  we  had  enjoyed,  but  as  so  many  lost  to 
us.     The  trial  was  a  hard  one  indeed  to  Mrs.  Aston. 
When  left  alone,  and  when  the  events  and  feelings  of 
many  years  came  all  together  to  her  mind,  in  the  agony 
of  nature  she  uttered  a  sorrowful  cry.     She  had  lived 
to   see   her  full  hopes  blasted;  the  misery  of  anxiety 
had  mingled  with  her  love;    and  the  man  w!Tb  had 
made,  as  it  were,  her  existence,  and  who  might,  she 
thought,  have  led  a  happy  life  had  he  never  known  her, 
had   died   of  a  broken   heart.  —  "I  could  have  borne 
your  death,  Alfred,  had  some  common  sickness  taken 
you  from  me.     I  could  have  lived  for  our  children,  and 
the  memory  of  you  would  have  been  an  angel  of  com- 
fort to  me ;  but  to  know  that  a  wasting  sorrow  of  the 
mind  made  life  comfortless  to  you,  who  had  a  heart  for 


KDWARD    AND    MARY.  229 

its  best  joys,  and  cut  you  off  so  soon,  —  how  can  I  bear 
it  I     O,  look  down  upon  me,  and  teach  me  how ! " 

The  artectionate  manners  and  constant  kind  atten- 
tions of  her  eldest  daugiiter,  Mary,  at  last  touched  her 
mother's  heart,  roused  her  from  her  abstracted  grief, 
and  made  her  once  more  sensible  that  there  were  living 
beings  for  her  to  love,  and  for  whom  she  had  many 
duties  to  fulfil. 

"  Have  you  seen  your  new  neighbours?"  said  Har- 
riet Shirley  one  day  to  her  brother. 

'•  They  were  at  church  last  Sunday,  but  so  veiled 
that  I  could  not  see  their  faces.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
1  should  hardly  dare  see  the  daughter's.  Her  form  is 
the  finest  I  ever  beheld;  and  I  am  sure  there  was  never 
so  much  beauty  of  movement  without  a  mind  answer- 
ing to  it." 

"  There  's  a  scrap  of  your  theory  again.  Upon  my 
word,  Edward,  you  will  go  mad  in  love  theoretically." 

"  I  am  half  afraid  of  it  myself,  for  in  my  walks  I 
have  seen  her  more  than  once  floating  before  me  in  the 
sunbeams." 

'*  O,  shame  on  you  for  a  lover  I  Sunbeams,  indeed ! 
NFoonlight,  my  dear  brother,  —  you  must  set  out  with 
iiiclanciioly  and  moonlight,  or  you  will  never  come  to 
a  proper  ond.  That  half-drawn  black  veil  against  a  pale 
forehead!  How  interesting!  And  all  over  black, — 
indeed,  the  very  Black  Nun  herself  How  could  you 
think  of  throwing  anything  less  soft  than  moonbeams 
over  such  a  form?  Now  don't  give  me  that  look  of 
grave  re])roof  If  I  do  trifle  out  of  season,  it  is  not 
that  I  do  not  feel." 

"Heedlessness  often  causes  as  much  pain  as  bad 
intention,   Harriet;   and   think  of  it  as  you  may,  will 

VOL.  I.  20 


230  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

more  or  less  harden  the  hearts  of  those  who  are  guilty 
of  it.  I  know  you  are  a  good  girl,  for  all  your  rattle, 
and  much  better  than  you  seem.  But  there  is  no 
need,  child,  of  playing  the  '  hypocrite  reversed,'  when 
there  are  hardly  examples  enough  of  goodness  to  keep 
virtue  in  countenance." 

"  You  are  right,  Edward,  you  are  always  right ;  and 
I  will  try  to  follow  your  advice ;  but  you  must  first 
follow  mine.  I  am  a  generous-hearted  girl,  and  will 
give  it  you  without  your  asking.  By  a  mere  glimpse 
of  this  Miss  Aston,  she  has  gotten  into  your  imagina- 
tion ;  and  unless  in  good  time  you  see  something  more 
of  what  you  would  call  the  humdrum  reality,  you  will 
be  so  far  gone  in  love  shortly,  that  when  you  do  at 
last  meet  with  her  you  will  be  lost  to  a  certainty.  So, 
before  it  is  too  late,  come  along  with  me,  and  rid  your- 
self of  your  fairy  vision." 

They  turned  up  the  narrow,  grassy  lane  which  led  to 
Mrs.  Aston's  house.  It  was  bounded  by  an  old,  irregu- 
lar stone  fence,  over  which  ran  a  few  straggling  wild 
vines,  while  the  setting  sun  was  pouring  its  rich  light 
upon  the  yellow,  gi'een,  and  stone-coloured  mosses 
which  coated  it  over.  The  branches  of  the  cedars, 
under  which  they  were  walking,  lifted  and  fell  with  a 
fanning  motion  to  the  night  breeze,  and  here  and  there 
a  bird  was  singing  her  farewell  to  the  sun,  as  she 
swung  upon  them.  A  turn  in  the  lane  brought  them 
opposite  the  house.  It  was  an  old  structure,  projecting 
in  front  over  the  basement  story,  and  running  up  from 
the  coving  into  three  sharp  triangles,  looking  as  bold 
and  fantastic  as  the  general  officers  in  the  old  prints  of 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  battles.  Edward  felt  as 
much  reverence  for  the  edifice,  as  he  would  have  done 
for  one  of  those  venerable  old  gentlemen  of  Queen 
Anne's  time,  had  he  made  his  apn(>nrnn<  fc> 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  231 

Mary  Aston  did  not  see  Edward  and  his  sister,  as 
she  was  intent  upon  training  np  a  honeysuckle  to  one 
of  the  carved  urns  pendent  troiu  the  projection  of  the 
house,  ih'  stopped  to  watch  for  a  moment  her  delicate 
lingers,  as  they  moved  among  the  leaves  and  ilowers. 
Her  mother  was  sitting  in  the  porch,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  shaggy  house-dog,  which  was  once  her 
husband's.  The  dog  was  lying  upon  the  step,  with  his 
neck  stretched  out  over  the  door-sill,  and  resting  partly 
on  his  mistress's  feet.  He  was  the  first  to  notice  tiie 
visiters.  He  turned  round  his  head,  got  up  and  shook 
himself  deliberately,  and  then  looked  up  in  his  mis- 
tress's face,  as  if  asking  how  he  was  to  receive  the  new- 
comers. 

"  Mary,"  said  her  mother,  rising.  —  Mary  looked 
round,  and  then  came  forward  a  little.  Harriet  intro- 
duced herself  and  brother  \\4th  her  wonted  easy  cheer- 
fulness, tempered  by  the  state  of  the  strangers.  She 
aj>ologized  for  having  put  off  her  call  so  long,  by 
saying  it  was  from  the  hope  that  her  mother  would 
before  then  have  been  well  enough  to  have  accom- 
panied her. 

''  I  heard  that  your  mother  was  not  well,  and  do 
not  know  1)UT  that  I  should  have  waived  ceremony 
and  called  in  to  see  her,  when  walking  out  with  Mary 
some  evening;  for  I  remember  having  met  her  in  this 
very  house ;  and  I  believe  we  liked  each  other  well  at 
the  time.  There  are  so  few  early  connections  left  to 
us  late  in  life,  that  I  should  not  willingly  give  np 
these  I  could  n'tain."  This  was  a  g(Mieral  reilection, 
but  brought  with  it  the  remembrance  of  her  husliand; 
and  the  momentary  effort  in  overcoming  lier  feelings 
showed  itself  in  her  countenance. 

'•  Will    you  walk    into    the    house  ? "  said    Mary   to 


232  •  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Harriet  and  her  brother ;  "  or  should  you  like  better  a 
seat  here  in  the  open  air  this  bright  evening  ?  "  "  For 
my  part,"  said  he,  taking  hold  of  the  broken  string 
around  which  the  honeysuckle  had  wound  itself,  "  as 
I  have  interrupted  you  in  your  work,  I  will  now  help 
you  finish  it,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

There  was  a  delicate  respect  in  his  manner,  which 
gave  an  air  of  kindness  and  attention  to  what  in  an- 
other might  have  looked  like  officiousness.  Besides, 
he  had  a  tact  for  character,  which  kept  him  from  any 
show  of  too  sudden  intimacy,  where  it  would  not  be 
understood  and  frankly  received.  It  is  said  that  saga- 
cious dogs  ))ossess  the  same  quality.  It  was  certain- 
ly so  with  Argus ;  for  what  with  his  fawning,  and 
the  fair  hands  of  Mary  kindly  saving  the  plant  from 
harm,  Edward  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  about. 
He  began  with  tying  the  bow  of  the  knot  first;  it 
slipped,  and  the  vine  fell  upon  Mary's  arms.  This  was 
not  making  the  matter  any  better,  and  in  the  second 
attempt  the  knot  was  tied  in  the  wrong  place. 

"  The  dog  is  troublesome,"  said  Mary.  "  Get  you 
out  of  the  way,  Argus." 

"  'T  is  all  my  awkwardness.  Miss  Aston.  You  must 
not  drive  Argus  away.  It  makes  me  better  pleased 
with  myself  to  be  liked  by  a  dog;  and  Argus  seems 
to  take  to  me  so  much  that  I  hope,  —  I  hope  he 
and  I  shall  soon  be  fast  friends.  I  will  not  blunder 
so  again."  —  The  knot  was  tied,  and  so  was  one  which 
Edward  could  never  undo  after. 

What  httle  things,  falling  in  with  our  natural  dispo- 
sitions, determine  the  course  of  our  affections  I  The 
fiking  of  an  old  family  house-dog,  acting  with  a  first 
impression,  did  more  to  fix  Edward  in  favour  with 
Mrs.  Aston  and  her  daughter  than  any  one  of  the 
party  was  aware. 


EDWARD    AND    MARY, 


533 


''  What  lias  my  brother  been  about  ?  Wliy,  I  de- 
c-hire, Mi;<s  Aston,  you  will  make  a  very  florist  of  him. 
At  home  he  never  thinks  of  moving  one  of  my  plants 
into  the  sun  for  me  of  a  cold  day.  He  scarcely  looks 
at  them ;  and  says  that  he  had  almost  as  lief  be  shut 
up  in  a  romn  full  of  stulVed  birds,  as  in  one  so  stuck 
round  with  flowers  and  flower-pots.  To  be  sure,  he 
brings  home  a  pocket  full  of  mosses  now  and  then, 
and  sometimes  a  poor  little  field-fiower ;  but  if  I  ask 
what  it  is  called,  I  get  but  the  ploughboy's  name  for 
it ;  for  under  its  fomial  botanic  title  it  is  no  longer  a 
poetic  being  to  him.'' 

"  You  forget  my  study-wnndow  woodbine,  which  is 
of  my  own  planting  and  training." 

"  Why,  so  I  did ;  though,  if  I  chose  to  deny  that 
you  had  one,  nobody  would  believe  you,  after  such 
bungling  work  as  you  made  with  Miss  Aston's  just 
now.  And  now  that  I  think  on't,  you  have  nursed 
yours  in  that  particular  ])laco,  merely  because,  when 
you  were  young  and  foolish  enough  to  believe  the 
story  of  little  '  Jack  and  the  Bean,'  you  stole  half  a 
dozen  green  beans  from  the  cook,  and  planted  them 
there  to  see  if  you  could  n't  climb  up  to  the  moon,  as 
well  as  Jack  ;  and  failing  of  growing  beans,  you  set 
out  the  woodbine  as  a  remembrancer  of  unsuspect- 
ing innocence,  and  a  memento  of  early  hopes  disap- 
pointed." 

"  Do  you  make  sport  of  all  your  friends  in  this  way?  " 
asked  Mary;  "  or  has  your  brother  good-naturedly  con- 
sented that  you  should  spend  your  merriment  upon 
him,  that  you  may  sparer  y<Jiir  other  friends  .'  I  hope 
there  is  some  such  compac^t  between  you,  else  I  must 
be  u|)<)n  my  guard  with  you." 

**  As  tn  a  <'om|)a(-t,  v<»ii  uill  kimw  all  about  thai  kwu- 
•20  • 


234 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


of  these  days.  I  've  no  doubt  your  sagacity  will  find 
it  out  soon  enough  for  me.  In  the  mean  time,  I  would 
advise  you  to  go  on  independently  of  my  foolish  hu- 
mour; for  be  assured,  however  like  paradox  it  may 
look,  nothing  so  lays  people  open,  as  aiming  to  act 
always  upon  their  good  behaviour." 

"  You  speak  with  a  wit's  confidence,  Miss  Shirley ; 
but  as  your  observation  sorts  well  with  my  own  judge- 
ment, I  '11  e'en  follow  it.  And  if  my  heedlessness 
bring  down  your  ridicule  upon  me,  I  shall,  at  any  rate, 
have  one  to  help  me  bear  it,"  she  added,  slightly  col- 
ouring, as  her  eyes  met  Edward's  turned  with  a  serious 
earnestness  upon  her. 

How  hard  it  is  at  certain  times,  when  we  are  most 
in  need  of  it  too,  to  find  something  to  say  I  —  except  to 
the  practised,  who  are  never  tortured  by  embarrass- 
ment, and  never  wanting  to  themselves.  Harriet  had 
moved  forward  to  speak  a  word  or  two  to  Mrs.  Aston, 
and  Mary  and  Edward  remained  together,  feeling  suf- 
ficiently awkward,  and  all  the  while  conscious  that  the 
embarrassment  of  each  was  known  to  the  other. 

We  are  for  ever  searching  after  great  and  marked 
causes  for  important  events,  and  cannot  be  content  to 
let  our  deepest  and  strongest  feelings  come  from  the 
small,  unnoticed  incidents  of  life.  Yet  an  unthought- 
of  word  dropped  in  discourse,  the  voice  that  utters  it, 
or  the  momentary  look  that  goes  with  it,  oftentimes 
thrills  us  more,  and  enters  with  a  more  quickening 
sense  into  our  hearts,  than  aU  the  purposed  and  well- 
ordered  terms  of  rhetoric.  To  those  who  have  some- 
thing which  makes  them  kindred  to  one  another,  these 
are  beautiful  revelations  of  each  other's  nature.  Deli- 
cate and  according  minds  hold  intelligent  discourse, 
in  half-uttered  words,  in  shifting  movements,  and  pass- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  230 

in^  fxprrssions  of  the  lace  :  it  is  like  the  iinai2[ine(l  in- 
tercourse of  angels,  whose  thoughts  -and  feelings  are  in- 
terchanged by  strange  and  wonderful  sympathies,  and 
need  no  tongue  to  speak  them.  It  is  so  in  early  love, 
with  those  whose  characters  are  in  agreement.  And 
so  was  it  in  the  present  case.  Not  that  Edward  and 
Mary  entered  into  a  self-examination  of  their  hearts; 
but  a  peculiar  delight  was  felt  by  each  for  the  first 
time,  and  life  seemed  a  new  existence  to  them. 

''  It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  me,"  said  he,  at  last, 
"  that  I  have  a  multitude  of  foolish  things  about  me, 
for  my  sister  to  make  amusement  out  of.  She  would 
scarce  care  a  jot  for  me,  were  I  a  piece  of  perfection. 
She  says  that  she  cannot  away  with  those  proper  folks 
who  never  commit  themselves." 

"  Her  interest  in  the  world  will  not  be  likely  to 
lessen,  if  it  measures  itself  by  people's  inadvertencies 
or  follies,"  said  Mary. 

"What  she  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Harriet, 
turning  round.  "  Are  you  putting  your  heads  together 
to  make  mutual  defence  and  secret  alliance  against  my 
npt  II  dealing?  Come,  I  must  break  this  up  in  good 
time.  Your  mother  is  going  into  the  house,  Miss  Aston, 
for  it  is  growing  chilly.  And  don't  you  see  the  mist 
wreathing  up  along  the  meadow  yonder?" 

"  It  will  do  no  harm  to  us  to-night,  Harriet,  for  the 
moon  is  rising  betimes  to  keep  it  down  in  the  low- 
lands ;  and  if  you  will  ask  Miss  Aston  to  walk  1o 
the  end  of  the  lane  with  you,  I  will  insure  her  a  walk 
back  safe  from  all  colds." 

"  I  hardly  know  whetlier  I  shall  ask  her,"  said  Harriet, 
at  the  same  linic  taking  Ikt  arm  within  her  own  ;iiid 
walking  on ;  "  lor  you  must  know.  Miss  Aston,  that 
though  my  brother  generally  avoids  our  sex,  y*^t,  when 


236  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

caught  amongst  them,  he  is  one  of  the  most  scrupu- 
lously polite  gentlemen  in  the  world.  Now,  think  of 
his  situation  when  we  reach  the  end  of  the  lane! 
Could  he  see  you  returning  by  the  dark,  giant  trunks 
of  all  these  trees,  and  without  a  protector  ?  And  yet 
it  would  never  do  to  leave  me  standing  alone,  though 
I  am  his  sister.  What  a  ridiculous  embarrassment  he 
would  be  thrown  into,  —  a  step  forward  and  then  a 
step  back,  tiU  brought  to  a  perfect  stand-stiU !  " 

"  A  Garrick  between  Tragedy  and  Comedy,  my 
sister." 

"  True,  but  with  an  opposite  leaning.  And  as  you 
would  have  to  choose  one  and  refuse  the  other,  if  I 
were  to  represent  Comedy,  as,  in  such  case,  I  presume 
I  needs  must,  it  is  plain  enough.  Sir  Melancholy,  what 
would  be  my  fate." 

"  Your  imagined  difficulty  is  all  over  now,  IVIiss 
Shirley,  for  here  comes  one  who  has  been  my  brave 
attendant  this  many  a  day,"  said  Mary,  patting  Argus 
on  the  head  as  he  made  up  to  her  side.  "  I  have  half 
a  mind  to  turn  you  off  w^ith  him  and  ask  Mr.  Shirley 
to  wait  upon  me,  to  punish  you  for  all  you  have  said 
to-night." 

"  That  would  hardly  be  fair.  Miss  Aston.  My  sister's 
ridicule  might  hurt  the  poor  fellow's  feelings ;  and, 
though  very  sagacious,  the  odds  might  be  against  him 
at  an  encounter  of  wits." 

Here,  with  one  common  and  blending  sense  of  hap- 
piness, they  reached  the  gateway,  and  then  parted  for 
the  first  time.  How  indistinctly  busy  the  mind  is  at 
parting  after  a  first  meeting,  where  the  heart  has  been 
at  all  touched. 

From  the  air  of  politicians,  it  must  be  a  mighty  easy 
matter  to  sec  into  the  causes  of  the  great  changes  in 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  "227 

the  world.  There  is  scarce  a  word  of  truth  in  all  they 
say,  let  them  talk  about  it  ever  so  plausibly.  From 
yovir  intangible,  theoretic  German,  down  to  your  mere 
matter-of-fact  man,  who  dates  Bonaparte's  overthrow 
from  the  rise  of  sugars  in  France,  they  are  all  wrong. 
The  causes  assigned  by  each  may  have  a  share  in  what 
is  done.  So  we  may  cut  a  twig,  and  set  it  in  the 
ground,  and  keep  the  earth  loose  about  it;  and  in  a 
few  years  what  diminutive  things  we  look  like  under 
its  long,  cool  branches  I  Its  growth  is  as  hidden  as  it 
is  silent ;  and  when  it  lays  itself  out  upon  the  air,  a 
beautiful  mystery,  with  its  web  of  glossy  leaves  inter- 
woven with  golden  sunshine,  do  we  look  up  into  it  with 
any  other  feeling  than  that  of  glad  worship  ?  And  yet 
we  know  more  of  its  origin,  and  had  more  to  do  with 
making  it  what  it  now  is,  than  we  have  part  or  knowl- 
edge in  a  tithe  of  what  we  decide  on  so  familiarly. 

If  out\vard  and  noted  events  keep  us  so  in  ignorance 
of  their  nature,  what  are  we  to  do  with  the  subtile 
movements  of  the  mind  ?  They  are  quick  or  slow ; 
they  agitate  us  violently,  or  are  scarcely  felt ;  huny  us 
suddenly  forward  after  what  we  a  little  before  followed 
sluggishly  and  at  intervals,  or  turn  us  about  in  ])ursuit 
of  that  which  we  had  passed  by  with  indillcrenee;  and 
aU  from  causes  so  strange  or  so  hidden,  that  we  cannot 
comprehend  them,  or  search  them  out. 

Edward,  within  an  hour  or  two,  had  passed  through 
some  of  the  most  simjile  and  ordinary  events  that  take 
place  in  our  common  intercourse  ;  yet  he  had  conic  out 
of  them  altogether  changed.  He  who  had  looked  with 
an  idle  eye,  and  with  an  estranged  mind,  upon  what 
was  the  concern  of  others,  found  his  being  suddenly 
swallowetl  iij)  ill  iliat  of  another.  "  How  gross  is  every- 
thing else  on   eartii,"   said    In-   to  himself,  "compared 


238  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

with  the  beautiful  refinement  of  a  woman  !  "  And  how 
monotonous  and  tame  and  indistinct  was  the  former 
being  of  his  imagination,  at  that  moment,  compared 
to  Mary  Aston  I 

After  walking  home  in  silence  with  his  sister,  he  con- 
tinued rambling  about.  The  house  was  too  close  and 
confined  for  him.  There  was  a  quick  and  warm  pul- 
sation through  him,  and  his  frame  was  expanding  and 
beating  with  new  life.  Beautiful  images  were  coming 
and  going  fast  and  bright  as  the  light ;  and  all  things 
that  drank  the  moist  night  air  and  slept  under  the 
moon,  or  shone  and  moved  beneath  it,  gave  him  a  new 
delight,  and  he  loved  them  more  than  ever.  He  was 
not  sensible  how  far  he  had  Avandered,  tUl  the  low, 
broad  chimney  of  Mrs.  Aston's  house  met  his  eye,  as  it 
stood  out  in  strong  and  sharp  relief  against  the  moon- 
light. Though  alone,  the  colour  rose  in  his  cheek,  and 
he  felt  a  beating  at  his  heart.  His  soul  was  in  a  mo- 
ment laid  open  to  him.  What  he  had  not  been  con- 
scious of  as  being  anything  more  than  one  of  those 
bright  and  hopeful  moments  which  visit  us  sometimes, 
we  know  not  why,  when  "  an  unaccustomed  spirit  lifts 
us  above  the  ground  with  happy  thoughts,"  he  now 
found  to  be  one  of  the  most  serious  circumstances  that 
can  happen  to  a  man  of  sentiment ;  and  he  was  forced 
to  acknowledge  to  himself  that  he  was  in  love. 

Almost  all  men,  at  some  time  or  other,  are  carried 
out  of  their  course  by  influences  that  act  upon  them 
with  the  power  and  silence  of  the  currents  of  the 
ocean;  and  ignorant  how  to  keep  their  reckoning,  or 
careless  about  it,  the  bigger  part  are  wrecked.  Edward 
found  that  he  had  been  swept  unconsciously  along. 
Still,  all  was  so  beautiful,  that  he  did  not  consider 
whither  the  stream  was  carrying  him;  for  the  clouds, 


EDWARD    AND    MARV.  2'S9 

and  jutting  rocks,  and  islands  with  all  their  trees  upon 
them,  glassed  themselves  in  the  sea,  and  made  a  fairy 
show  lor  him  to  muse  upon. 

He  drew  near  the  house.  As  he  moved  alonsr  under 
the  branches  of  the  large  trees,  their  noise  overhead  was 
like  that  of  the  surf.  There  was  something  ominous 
and  wizard-like  in  the  confused  and  wild  multitude  of 
their  motions  and  sounds ;  and  a  melancholy  foreboding 
crossed  his  mind  like  the  shadow^  of  a  cloud.  As  he 
passed  out  from  underneath  their  shade,  his  clieerful- 
ness  returned  :  and  as  he  looked  toward  the  dwelling 
of  Alary  Aston,  he  felt  a  blessing  on  him.  The  iiii- 
couth  variety  in  the  old  building  looked  more  grotesque 
than  before,  in  the  moonlight ;  and  the  shadows  of  its 
odd  peaks  and  projections,  falling  at  random  upon  it, 
seemed  like  fantastic  creatures  of  the  night,  holding 
their  games  in  its  sides  and  nooks.  It  was  a  tolerable 
representation  of  the  mind  of  him  who  was  looking  at 
it.  For  images  and  thoughts  were  going  through  that 
without  order,  and  of  whicii  he  knew  not  whence  they 
came,  or  whither  they  tended.  His  intellect  and  his 
sensations  were  under  the  sway  of  some  powers  with- 
out him,  which  at  one  time  exi)anded  him  with  hope, 
and  then  again  overcame  him  with  a  feeling  of  despair. 
He  lingered  near  the  house  a  long  time,  till  at  length 
the  sense  of  the  endless  duration  and  of  the  continued 
going-on  of  life,  with  which  nature  impresses  us,  grad- 
ually gave  a  steadiness  and  cheerfulness  to  iiis  thoughts  ; 
and  the  fixed  sky,  and  I)rig1it  moon,  and  the  image  of 
Mary  Aston,  all  togelher  wrought  his  st)iil  to  harmony, 
and,  tran(|uil  and  happy,  he  returned  lioiiic. 

A  real  Iowt  is  (juite  an  unaccountable  cnatuiv  wiien 
awake;  it  would  be  altogether  in  \:iiM  t()  attempt  de- 
scribing his   dreams.     Edward    did    not   wake    in    tin- 


240  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

morning,  however,  in  that  state  of  composed  indiffer- 
ence in  which  we  generally  are  when  coming  out  of 
sleep.  Before  he  was  roused  to  a  full  possession  of  his 
faculties,  there  was  a  vague  notion  of  something  im- 
portant to  be  done,  or  of  some  uncommon  event  in 
which  he  was  concerned. 

He  did  not  find  his  sister  at  the  breakfast-table  to 
tease  him  and  divert  him  from  his  abstraction.  He 
gTCW  more  and  more  restless  as  the  day  advanced ;  his 
books  seemed  dull ;  he  was  wearied  of  sitting  still,  and 
as  tired  of  walking.  When  we  are  in  perplexity  fronri 
having  forgotten  what  we  came  after,  we  go  back  to 
the  place  we  started  from,  to  set  all  right.  Had  he 
followed  this  method,  and  gone  to  Mrs.  Aston's,  he 
would  have  rid  himself  at  once  of  his  uneasiness.  He 
was  sensible  enough  of  this.  "  It  is  not  within  rule," 
said  he  to  himself.  "  What  preposterous  things  these 
rules  of  society  are,  —  for  all  but  blockheads  and  im- 
pertinents ! "  One  in  love  must  be  allowed  to  say  so, 
yet  he  is  wrong.  We  aU  stand  in  need  of  these  rules, 
more  or  less  ;  and  if  they  sometimes  appear  merely 
troublesome,  a  little  trouble  is  well  for  the  best  of  us. 
Facilities,  for  the  most  part,  do  more  harm  than  good : 
children  of  the  next  generation  will  find  it  so,  and 
thank  us  Uttle  for  what  our  half  vanity  and  half  affec- 
tion are  now  so  busy  about  for  them. 

Addison  has  written  an  essay,  showing  why  it  is 
harder  to  conceive  of  eternity  as  never  beginning  than 
as  never  ending.  Edward  was  as  much  puzzled  to  set 
bounds  to  his  day,  as  we  are  to  think  of  eternity  with- 
out days.  It  closed  upon  him  at  last ;  and  the  next  went 
on  the  same  way,  till  he  found  himself,  near  the  end 
of  it,  in  a  narrow  lane  back  of  Mrs.  Aston's  dwelfing. 

Though  Mary  Aston  possessed  much  of  that  equa- 


EDWAKD    AND    .MARY.  241 

bility  and  patience  of  temper  for  which  women  are  so 
proverbial,  it  would  look  like  a  repetition  of  what  has 
just  been  said,  to  describe  her  feelings  since  slie  had 
parted  from  Edward.  She  had  walked  out  towards 
nii^htfall,  that  tiic  cool  air  might  refresh  her,  and,  with- 
out being  at  all  conscious  of  it,  from  a  feeling  whicli 
goes  for  hope,  but  which  periiaps  has  more  of  wishing 
than  of  expectation  in  it,  that  before  she  returned  she 
might  see  Edward.  Our  wishes  often  give  us  expecta- 
tions, but  they  as  often  direct  our  conduct  where  we 
have  nothing  to  hope.  If  they  can  do  it  in  no  other 
way,  they  will  bring  it  about  by  putting  us  into  a  kind 
of  fanciful  state,  and  making  the  imaginary  pass  for 
the  actual.  It  is  not  very  wide  of  that  condition  which 
a  child  is  in,  when  he  is  mounted  upon  a  walking-stick 
and  plays  it  is  his  horse.  It  is  a  little  ludicrous  and 
mortifying,  that  wise  and  tall  men  should  be  caught  in 
this  way  riding  their  own  canes ;  so  we  will  say  noth- 
ing more  about  it. 

The  colour  rose  in  the  cheek  of  each,  and  their  man- 
ner was  slightly  embarrassed,  as  they  suddenly  met  in 
the  lane;  l)ut  the  tremulousness  of  the  voice  told  bet- 
ter than  these  what  was  at  their  hearts.  Edward  of 
course  passed  the  evening  with  Mary  and  her  mother. 
"  You  must  pardon  my  staying  to  so  late  an  hour. 
I  am  not  a  frequent  visiter,  but  I  never  know  when  it 
is  time  to  go."  This  he  said  as  he  rose,  and,  against 
all  rule,  leaned  over  the  back  of  his  chair.  It  was 
some  time  before  he  quitted  this,  and  there  was  longer 
lingering  at  the  door-stej) ;  for  IMary's  voice  made 
music  so  soft  and  clear  in  th(*  still  night  air,  and  lier 
eyes,  turn(.*d  upward  to  the  moon,  were  so  like  a  kin- 
dred heaven,  answering  to  that  over  their  heads, —  how 
could  he  (juit  it  all,  to  be  alone  again? 

vol,.  I.  21 


242  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mrs.  Aston,  or  Mary,"  said  Harriet,  one 
day,  "who  has  wrought  such  a  change  in  my  once 
steady  brother  ?  Formerly  he  was  never  abroad,  and 
now  he  is  never  at  home.  I  can  answer  the  question 
myself.  He  comes  to  moralize  upon  the  sin  and  vani- 
ty of  the  w^orld,  along  with  your  mother,  Mary.  He 
rarely  talks  to  girls  like  us ;  for  he  says  he  seldom 
meets  with  any  who  do  not  show  that  they  are  all 
the  time  having  an  eye  to  themselves,  let  the  subject 
they  are  conversing  about  be  ever  so  serious  or  im- 
portant. In  his  brotherly  fondness  he  would  make 
me  an  exception,  I  dare  say,  did  I  ever  talk  seriously. 
The  most  I  ever  arrive  at  is  to  make  him  laugh,  and  be 
called  a  rattle-head  for  my  pains." 

"  His  remark,  I  fear,  is  as  true  as  any  general  one 
may  be,"  answered  Mary.  "  And  he  might  have  ex- 
tended it  to  those  of  his  own  sex,  though  a  little  quali- 
fied, perhaps,  had  he  been  as  mvich  inclined  to  observe 
them.  The  truth  is,  both  girls  and  young  men  appear 
to  more  advantage  when  conversing  with  the  old  of  an 
opposite  sex,  than  with  those  of  their  own  age.  I  al- 
ways take  most  satisfaction  in  talking  with  men  who 
are  turning  gray." 

"  Should  not  Mary  in  all  fairness  except  my  grave 
brother,  Mrs.  Aston,  who  goes  about  looking  as  if  he 
was  always  thinking  upon  something,  as  our  old  house- 
keeper says  ?  " 

"  That  were  scarce  necessary,"  said  Mrs.  Aston,  not 
observing  the  flush  which  her  reply  threw  over  Mary's 
face ;  "  for  I  have  scarcely  met  with  a  man  so  appar- 
ently sincere  and  in  earnest  in  what  he  was  about. 
Besides,  there  is  so  much  of  that  propriety  of  principle 
in  his  manner,  which  keeps  off  encroachment,  without 
the  appearance  of  being  on  one's   guard,  and  such  a 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  243 

simple  and  unostentatious  dclicaey,  —  unlike  that  showy 
coniplaisanco  wiiich  passes  tor  good-breeding,  but  is  re- 
ally vulgarity,  because  assuming  a  superiority  over  him 
towards  whom  it  is  displayed,  —  that  I  should  argue 
ill  of  the  discernment,  and  almost  of  the  character,  of 
one  who  did  not  from  the  first  feel  the  beauty  of  his 
conduct." 

"  Wiiat  a  compliment  I  have  to  carry  home  to  my 
brother  I  "  said  Harriet,  going. 

'•  You  must  not  carry  any  from  me,  Harriet." 

"  Whv  not.  Madam  ?  They  are  the  best  thinsfs  in 
the  world  to  put  folks  in  good-humour.  I  invent  one 
for  my  prim  aunt,  when  I  go  to  pass  the  day  with  her, 
—  as  I  sometimes  am  obliged  to  do,  because  mamma 
says  it  is  proper  to  visit  our  relations." 

"  Perhaps  your  aunt  is  too  old  to  be  injured  by 
them,"  said  Mary,  "  Yet  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
which  has  turned  so  many  wise  folks  into  fools." 

"  I  will  be  revenged  for  your  reflection  on  my  aunt's 
vanity.  And  to  pay  you  for  your  philosopiiy,  which  ill 
becomes  a  miss  in  her  teens,  I  shall  dress  up  the  com- 
pliment, and  with  a  happy  vagueness  leave  my  brother 
to  conjecture  whether  it  be  from  mother  or  child." 

•  Diiiii  put  your  brother  upon  any  such  guesses.  If 
you  needs  must  repeat  it.  let  him  know  that  it  came 
from  an  elderly  lady,  and  not  from  a  young  one." 

"  Now,  I  did  not  expect  that  from  you,  ma'am,  who 
had  just  said  so  much  about  his  wisdom  ;  and  when  it 
was  but  the  other  night,  too,  that  he  talked  so  gravely 
about  virtue's  only  being  sure  when  resting  wholly  on 
itself,  and  fmding  its  satisfactions  within,  and  not  in 
distinctions  that  attend  it  abroad.  Come,  Mary,  you 
nha' n't  look  so  gravely  at  me,"  said  Harriet,  as  Mary 
followed  her   lo  the  door.     "  You  need   not   fear  me. 


244  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

And  even  if  I  should  divert  myself  with  some  idle 
story,  my  brother  thinks  too  justly  of  you,  I  trust,  to 
take  anything  of  the  kind  that  I  may  say  for  more 
than  mere  foolery."  —  Mary  retm-ned  the  pressm-e  of 
Harriet's  hand,  and  wished  her  cheerfully  a  pleasant 
walk  home,  as  she  sprang  lightly  from  the  step. 

Mary  went  happy  to  her  chamber,  reflecting  upon 
the  warm  manner  in  which  her  mother  had  spoken  in 
praise  of  Edward,  and  thinking  her  the  best  mother 
that  ever  lived. 

Though  Harriet  was  no  go-between,  and  despised 
anything  like  match-making  as  heartily  as  it  deserves 
to  be,  yet  she  had  such  a  love  for  her  brother,  and  took 
so  deep  an  interest  in  whatever  concerned  him,  and 
was  so  desirous  that  he  might  shake  off  that  melan- 
choly which  too  often  preyed  upon  him,  by  finding  an 
object  for  his  affections  to  fasten  on,  that  she  could  not 
avoid  showing  how  happy  it  made  her  to  find  that  there 
was  so  much  of  sympathy  between  him  and  Mary. 
Upon  her  return  home,  she  could  not  help  letting  fall 
certain  expressions  and  remarks  which  referred  to  Mrs. 
Aston's  opinion  of  him,  and  at  the  same  time  showing 
what  she  surmised  were  Mary's  feelings.  This  she  did 
cautiously  and  in  a  playful  way ;  for  she  well  under- 
stood that  Edward  was  not  a  man  to  be  talked  to,  or 
to  talk  of  his  affections ;  and  she  knew  how  to  respect 
him  for  it. 

0 

"  Am  I  not  sure  that  she  loves  me  ? "  said  he,  one 
day,  as  he  shut  his  study  door.  "  And  why  should  I 
delay  ?  Is  it  not  trifling  with  myself,  and  what  is 
more,  with  a  woman  of  delicate  and  ardent  feehngs  ?  " 
—  He  had  asked  himself  these  very  questions  before. 
And  those  who  go  to  proffer  terms  of  marriage  with 
certificates  of  property  and  letters  of  recommendation 


EDWARD    AND    MARV.  245 

ill  their  pockets,  must  tliink  liim  a  very  odd  sort  of  fel- 
low to  make  such  a  pother  about  that  whicli  so  many 
before  him  have  done  oil-hand.  Some  are  blessed  with 
an  undisturbed  worldly  wisdom  ;  while  others  are  car- 
ried to  and  fro,  or  humed  or  delayed,  by  impulses  and 
sensations  made  up  of  exquisite  pleasures  and  acute 
pains,  over  whicii  they  have  little  control.  Heaven 
help  these  last  I  The  first  can  take  care  of  themselves, 
at  least  for  this  world. 

There  are  men  of  a  certain  refined  sense,  brave  men 
too,  and  with  not  a  whit  of  awkward  bash  fulness  in 
them  either,  who,  even  where  they  knew  the  afibctiou 
to  be  mutual,  could  no  more  tell  a  woman  that  they 
loved  her,  just  when  tiiey  chose  to  fix  the  time  for 
doing  so,  than  Cowper  could  have  read  in  the  House 
of  Lords. 

Urgent  business  of  his  father's  prevented  Edward 
for  some  time  from  seeing  Mary.  When  he  did,  it  was 
on  a  mild  evening  of  a  warm  day.  The  parlour  door 
was  open,  and  he  entered  the  room,  and  drew  near  the 
window  where  she  was  sitting,  without  being  observed 
by  her;  for  she  was  lost  in  painful  rellections.  To  feel 
neglected  by  him  would  have  been  hard  enough  to 
bear;  but  the  fear  that  Harriet,  in  her  thoughtless  chat, 
had  said  something  which  had  lowered  her  in  his  opin- 
ion, was  intolerable.  The  ill  opinion  of  such  a  man 
was  almost  enough  to  make  even  the  innocent  feel 
the  shame  of  guilt. 

The  m(!lancholy  of  those  we  love,  when  a  token  of 
their  interest  in  us,  gives  us  nearly  as  deep  a  delight, 
for  a  time,  as  when  we  think  wc;  make  them  happy, — 
perhajis  a  deejier.  For  almost  any  one  may  nu)ve  an- 
other to  pleasure,  mid  l Ik;  degrees  ol  pleasure  cannot 
always   be   distinirnisiied.      Jim    wIkh    duc   is    in    grief 


246  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

from  some  small  circumstance  in  love,  we  have  an  as- 
surance that  there  can  be  no  mistake.  When  Edward 
looked  upon  Mary's  fine  face,  and  saw  it  overcast,  and 
said  to  himself,  "  This  is  because  of  me,"  an  exquisite 
feeling  thrilled  through  his  heart,  at  the  same  time  that 
she  was  dearer  to  him  than  ever.  His  voice  betrayed 
his  emotion  as  he  spoke  to  her ;  and  suddenly  raising 
her  eyes,  she  saw  his  serious  countenance  lighted  up 
with  a  smile  full  of  love.  There  was  an  answering 
one  in  Mary's  face,  mingled  with  an  expression  of  con- 
fusion, and  something  like  pain,  from  surprise  and  the 
suddenness  of  the  change  in  her  feelings.  This  was  a 
fine  moment  for  a  lover.  Not  so  for  Edward ;  he  was 
too  full  of  delightful  sensations,  and  could  only  look  on 
in  still  rapture.  When  he  at  last  spoke,  his  words  had 
little  to  do  with  his  immediate  thoughts,  and  he  was  as 
far  from  his  purpose  as  before.  She  moved  a  little, 
and  Edward  sat  down  by  her  in  the  old  window-seat. 
Her  beautifully  turned  arm,  and  tapering,  dimpled 
fingers,  were  resting  on   the  window-ledge. 

"  Did  I  ever  see  that  ring  before  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,  for  I  have  just  received  it.  '  It  was  a  seal-ring 
of  my  grandfather's,'  "  she  added,  half  laughing. 

"  Whether  your  gi-andfather's  or  a  younger  man's," 
he  replied,  looking  somewhat  anxiously  in  her  face,  "  it 
is  a  very  curious  one." 

She  was  half  offended  and  half  pleased  at  this  show 
of  jealous  regard. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Shirley,  do  you  think  that  it  is 
my  way  to  wear  young  men's  rings  ?  "  Then,  chang- 
ing her  voice  to  her  usual  tone,  —  "  It  is  rather  a  sin- 
gular one.  Will  you  look  at  it  ?  "  she  asked  frankly, 
at  the  same  time  drawing  it  from  her  finger. 

If  we  are  not  very  careful,  we  cannot  take  so  little  a 


EDWARD    AND    MAltY.  247 

thiiiij  as  a  rins^  from  another,  without  the  hands 
touching  slii];htly  ;  nor  is  it  very  easy  for  two  persons 
to  examine  enriously  so  3mall  a  matter  without  their 
heads  comino;  very  near  to  eaeh  other.  It  is  ten  to  one 
that,  at  any  rate,  you  will  feel  some  stray,  curling  lock 
touching  every  now  and  then  against  your  forehead. 
You  may  know  that  it  is  not  your  own,  by  the  tlirill  it 
sends  through  the  brain  and  bosom.  There  is  a  breath 
too,  pure  as  air,  which  reaches  you ;  —  there  is  no  such 
atmosphere  in  the  whole  world  for  sensations.  There 
needs  no  talking  at  such  a  moment ;  there  is  a  close 
and  silent  communion  of  the  thoughts  and  wakened 
senses,  by  which  we  understand  each  other  better  than 
we  could  by  words,  though  we  culled  the  choicest  from 
the  language  of  every  nation  on  the  globe.  Even  the 
tones  of  love,  in  their  utmost  softness,  would  break  up 
the  beautiful  working  of  the  charm,  at  such  a  time,  and 
turn  all  to  common  life  again. 

It  was  Mary  who  took  the  ring  off,  but  it  w^as 
Edward  who  put  it  on  again ;  and  it  was  done  with 
such  respectful  delicacy,  and  with  so  gentle  a  touch  of 
the  hand,  that  a  dedicated  nun  could  not  have  been 
ortended  at  it.  Mary's  heart  beat  cpiick  ;  and  as  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  ring,  that  heart  asked,  Is  it  not  a  pledge 
of  his  love? 

It  was,  indeed,  love  that  had  done  it  all;  but  it  was 
inaudible  love,  love  that  understood  not  itself,  nor  why 
it  had  done  thus.  It  was  the  hiid  of  love,  aiid  the 
hour  had  not  yet  come  for  its  opening. 

Th(;  conversation  took  a  moralizing  turn,  and  a  good 
deal  was  said  about  the  feelings,  —  not  in  a  prosing 
way,  however.  There  was  a  closer  intimacy  in  the 
cast  of  it  than  there  had  been  before.  'I'hey  knew  the 
character   of   eat  ii    other's    minds    aiul   fli^posilion»  as 


248  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

well  as  if  they  had  lived  together  for  years.  Some  will 
say  this  is  impossible.  The  opinion  of  such  persons 
may  be  true  enough,  so  far  as  concerns  themselves  and 
half  the  world  beside.  Most  people  might  as  well  be 
mamed  by  proxy,  like  princes,  as  to  any  knowledge 
they  have  of  one  another's  character  at  the  time.  And 
it  is  a  pity  that  many  of  them  could  not  remain  in 
their  ignorance,  so  badly  are  they  sorted.  The  most 
they  ever  amve  at  is  a  sort  of  unwillingness  to  be  long 
apart,  from  a  habit  of  having  been  much  together. 
There  are  peculiar  people,  however,  who  get  as  much 
into  what  is  essential  in  each  other's  character  in  half 
an  hour's  acquaintance,  by  what  is  said  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  things  are  said  or  done,  as  others  would, 
should  they  pass  together  the  lives  of  a  patriarch  and 
his  spouse.  —  Then,  says  one,  you  are  a  believer  in  love 
at  first  sight  ?  —  I  believe  that  such  a  thing  may  be,  or 
something  very  like  it. 

They  were  walking  in  front  of  the  house  when  the 
time  came  for  Edward  to  return  home. 

"  Stay  a  moment,  Mr.  Shirley ;  late  as  it  is,  you 
must  help  me  about  my  woodbine  once  more,  before 
you  go ;  for  see,  the  wind  has  blown  it  down." 

As  they  were  training  it  up,  then-  eyes  met,  and  their 
looks  showed  to  each  other  that  the  time  when  they 
first  saw  one  another,  and  much  which  had  passed 
since,  were  in  their  thoughts. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  me  then  ?  "  said  he. 

"  When  ?  "  she  asked.  And  half  ashamed  of  feign- 
ing ignorance  of  what  she  well  understood,  — "  Think 
of  you?  Why,  much  as  I  do  now,  and  as  I  trust  I 
always  shall." 

"  If  I  interpret  this  according  to  my  wishes,  shall  I 
be  right?" 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  249 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  colouring ;  "  or  wiiai  couli,! 
your  opinion  be  of  me,  else  ?  " 

"  The  same  as  it  always  has  been  and  must  be. 
For,  much  as  I  should  sutler  to  be  without  your  esteem 
and  kind  regard,  Mary,  you  will  always  have  mine.  I 
would  say  more,  but  I  know  not  why  I  cannot  now. 
Need  I  say  it?  You  know  what  I  feel,  for  I  have  ever 
shown  myself  to  you  what  I  am,  though  I  cannot  to  all 
the  world.  All  is  not  well  at  my  heart  now.  'T  is 
strange.  I  was  tlie  happiest  man  alive  a  moment  ago. 
No  matter ;  we  shall  meet  again  to-morrow.  Whether 
we  meet  or  not,  whether  good  or  ill  come  to  me,"  he 
said,  taking  her  hand  within  both  his,  and  pressing  it 
earnestly,  "  may  God's  best  blessing  vest  upon  yon, 
Mary."  His  voice  faltered.  Mary  tried  to  speak.  It 
was  in  vain.  Her  lips  moved,  but  there  was  no  sound. 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  with  an  almost  imploring 
look.  She  was  not  given  to  tears  like  the  rest  of  her 
sex,  yet  they  filled  her  eyes  now.  Edward  kissed 
away  one  that  stood  on  lier  cheek,  and  hurried  from 
her  with  a  bewildered  mind. 

Are  not  our  feelings  sometimes  sent,  like  prophets,  to 
make  us  ready  against  evils  which  we  see  not,  but 
which  are  nigh  at  hand  ?  Edward  continued  his  walk 
till  a  late  hour,  that  he  might  rid  himself  of  the  feverish 
restlessness  which  torment(.'d  his  body  and  mind. 

Mr.  Shirley  had  been  from  home  for  a  couple  of 
days,  and  had  returnexi  during  his  son's  absence.  As 
Edward  drew  ne:ir  the  house,  he  saw  a  liglit  in  his 
father's  study.  He  perceived,  by  the  fre([uent  darken- 
ing of  the  lamp,  that  some  one  was  walking  the  room 
at  a  rapid  pace.  His  fci-lings  were  in  a  state  to  bode 
ill.  It  was  unusual  lor  his  falhrr  to  he  up  ;it  <o  lute  an 
hour,   and    lOdwanl  niiirmlK-red,  that,  for  several  days 


250 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


before  his  leaving  home,  he  had  appeared  anxious  and 
abstracted.  Edward's  character  was  so  matured  and  of 
so  serious  a  cast,  that  his  father  treated  him  rather  as  a 
companion  than  a  son.  He  entered  the  house,  and 
went  immediately  to  the  study  door  and  knocked. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  called  out  his  father. 

«  It  is  I,  Sir." 

"  O  !  Edward  ?     Come  in ! " 

Instead  of  turning  and  giving  Edward  his  hand  as 
usual,  Mr.  Shirley  continued  walking  the  room  without 
noticing  him.  Edward  looked  at  his  father.  The 
room  shook  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the  foot 
seemed  to  grasp  the  floor  at  every  step.  His  arms 
were  folded  with  a  convulsive  closeness  over  his  breast. 
The  muscles  of  his  face  worked  hard,  and  the  blood 
was  beating  quick  through  the  clear,  high  veins  of  his 
temples.  —  "I  have  been  waiting  for  you  this  hour," 
said  he  at  last,  in  an  under  voice,  and  without  turning 
his  head.  His  pace  grew  quicker,  and  each  fibre  of  his 
body  vibrated  with  agony,  and  seemed  stretched  till 
ready  to  snap.  —  "  You  are  all  beggars,"  he  cried  out  at 
last,  throwing  himself  into  his  chair  and  gasping  for 
breath.  Edward's  alarm  scarcely  left  him  conscious  of 
what  his  father  had  said.  He  went  to  him,  and,  lean- 
ing over  him,  spoke  in  so  affectionate  a  voice  that  it 
touched  him  to  the  quick.  The  tears  started  to  his 
father's  eyes :  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  suffered  man 
to  see  one  there.  He  grew  composed  at  last,  and,  brac- 
ing himself  to  the  act,  told  his  son  all  that  had  hap- 
pened. 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Shirley's  fortune  had  been  an 
ample  one ;  but  having  attached  certain  notions  of 
princely  grandeur  to  wealth,  he  had,  in  a  inoment  of 
ambition,    put   the   whole   at  stake  in  expectation  of 


f:dward  and  mary.  251 

doubling  it ;  the  speculation  had  tailed,  and  he  had  lost 
nearly  all. 

'*  You  are  much  exhausted,  Sir,''  said  Edward,  after 
talking  \vith  his  father  a  long  time;  "you  must  go  to 
bed,  and  endeavour  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  we  will 
see  what  can  be  done.  I  hope  all  is  not  so  bad  as  you 
think."  —  '•  Good  night  to  you,  Edward,"  said  he,  much 
moved.  "  I  hope  this  news  has  not  come  too  late  to 
prevent  your  involving  another  in  our  calamity.  If 
not,  I  know  you  have  too  much  principle  in  you  to 
bind  such  a  woman  to  your  hard  fortune,  let  the  effort 
to  stop  short  cost  you  what  it  may." 

"  I  know  not ;  I  hope,  —  I  fear " 

"  Well,  well  I  we  will  not  talk  of  that  now,"  said  his 
father,  pressing  his  hand.     Edward  left  the  room. 

For  a  man  of  a  shy  disposition  and  retired  habits, 
who  has  nurtured  his  romantic  thoughts  in  solitary 
musing,  whose  intellectual  being  is  made  up  of  senti- 
ment and  imagination,  and  who  has  never  thought  nor 
cared  for  business  or  gain,  to  attempt  of  a  sudden  to 
change  his  nature,  and,  ignorant  as  an  infant,  to  find 
out  for  himself  through  the  intricacies  of  trades  or  pro- 
fessions a  way  amid  shrewd,  calculating,  and  know- 
ing men,  is  almost  a  hopeless  undertaking.  Though 
Edward  did  not  want  energy  or  perseverance,  he  was 
not  presumptuous  ;  and  understanding  his  own  charac- 
ter well,  and  how  far  nature  and  education  had  untit- 
ted  him  for  a  man  of  business,  he  was  too  well  princi- 
pled and  gj'iierous  to  endure  the  thought  of  connecting 
another  with  his  uncertain  lortun«'s,  anil  of  feeling  tiiat, 
while  he  might  be  vainly  struggling  on,  her  lile  was 
wearing  away  in  delayed  hopes. 

As  the  door  shut  upon  him,  it  seemed  as  if  each  living 
thing  had  (piitted   him,  and  he  was  Icit  alone  upon  the 


252  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

earth.  Though  his  passions  were  deep-rooted,  and  the 
smallest  fibres  of  them  were  alive  with  the  love  of 
Mary,  his  father's  suflerings  had  made  him  for  the  mo- 
ment forgetful  of  his  own.  And  now  that  he  was  left 
to  himself,  and  saw  that  he  was  shorn  of  hope,  it  was 
the  thought  of  Mary  that  wrung  him.  "  A  few  hours 
ago,  Mary,  and  you  came  to  me  with  the  elastic  spring 
of  a  glad  and  fond  spirit,  and  your  countenance  opened 
and  brightened  like  the  morning  upon  me.  It  is  over 
now ;  the  light  is  shut  out,  and  you  must  wither  in  the 
cold  and  damp  which  is  ready  to  fall  on  you.  I  could 
endure  my  own  sufferings,  and  go  to  my  grave  alone, 
sooner  or  later,  as  God  might  will  for  me  ;  but  I  cannot, 
I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  what  you  will  suffer, — 
you,  whom  I  have  taught  to  love  me  so."  He  con- 
tinued walking  the  room  till  the  birds  began  sending 
out  short,  broken  notes,  and  stirring  themselves  in  the 
trees.  He  went  to  his  chamber,  and,  over-wearied,  fell 
into  a  short,  uneasy  sleep. 

Though  his  feelings  were  stronger  than  fall  to  the 
lot  of  many,  they  were  in  their  nature  so  deep  and  still, 
and  so  mixed  with  the  intellectual,  as  not  to  overcome 
his  self-control.  He  met  the  family  at  breakfast  with 
a  composed  countenance ;  and  immediately  after  went 
with  his  father  to  the  study,  and  assisted  him,  as  far  as 
he  was  able,  in  adjusting  his  papers.  All  was  in  order 
in  a  few  days  to  deliver  up  to  the  creditors.  As  they 
were  few,  and  gentlemen  who  had  confidence  in  Mr. 
Shu'ley,  everything  was  done  to  spare  his  feelings.  He 
was  sensible  of  it  with  mixed  pride  and  gratitude. 
The  family  were  to  leave  the  mansion  and  retu-e  to  a 
small  house,  which,  with  a  trifling  income,  was  all  that 
was  left  of  the  estate. 

"  Harriet,"  said  Edward,  the  morning  after  he  was 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  253 

made  acquainted  with  his  father's  loss,  "  will  yoii  WTite 
T(i  ^lary.  and  tell  her  what  has  happened?  I  cannot 
SIT  luT  till  everytiiins;  is  adjusted.  It  would  unman 
nic;  and  there  is  nmcii  to  he  done,  and  my  poor  father 
must  have  my  assistance. —  You  must  command  your- 
self better,"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  steady  tone. 

"  I  will,  I  will,  Edward ;  but  I  could  not  have  loved 
a  sister  better ;  and  I  have  almost  lived  upon  the 
thought,  of  late,  that  I  was  to  see  you  both  so  happy 
soon  I  It  is  all  over  now."  Edward  hurried  out  of 
the  room. 

In  a  few  days  the  family  were  ready  to  depart. 
They  entered  an  old  family  coach,  and  drove  oil  as 
silently  as  if  following  a  friend  to  the  grave.  Edward 
was  to  remain  behind  till  everything  was  delivered 
up.  The  furniture  was  sent  away  to  the  city  to  be 
soUl,  and  he  was  now  ready  to  follow  his  parents  and 
sister. 

So  long  as  there  remained  any  duties  for  Edward 
to  fulfil,  he  bore  u\)  firiuly  against  this  sudden  destruc- 
tion of  his  hopes.  The  luirelaxed  effort  had  nearly  ex- 
hausted mind  and  body,  and  yet  the  hardest  trial  was 
to  come.  lie  was  to  meet  Mary,  and  to  part  with  her, 
])erliaps  for  ever.  "  Only  a  few  days  ago,"  thought  he, 
'•  wiiile  1  was  absent  from  her,  I  was  impatient  till  the 
hour  came  that  I  was  to  meet  ht  r.  I  scarcely  dare 
think  of  doing  it  now." 

The  solitude  of  the  house  oppressed  him,  and  seemed 
to  forebode  evil.  "  I  can  bear  it  no  longer;  something 
tf-rrible  haunts  me."  As  he  was  hurrying  out  of  the 
lionsc,  old  .Jacob,  the  only  domestic  left  behind,  met 
liiiii  at  tJM'  door.  '•  Where  are  yon  going  this  sad 
ni;rhi,  .Mr.  I'Mward  .'  The  mist  drops  from  the  leaves 
like  rain,  and  a  hesivy  storm  is  setting  in.      It  has  been 

vol..   I.  'i! 


254  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

brewing  all  day  long,  and  begins  to  stir  hard  in  the 
trees." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  he  muttered,  pressing  for- 
ward ;  then,  stopping  a  moment,  —  "  Have  all  ready  to 
start  by  sunrise,  Jacob." 

"  It  will  be  hard  to  tell  that  time  to-morrow.  Sir," 
answered  Jacob,  as  Edward  was  shutting  the  door, 
"  if  I  know  what  the  weather  will  be  from  one  hour 
to  another." 

The  night  had  nearly  shut  in,  and  the  rocks  and 
trunks  of  trees,  which  were  almost  black  from  the 
dampness  which  had  been  upon  them  the  day  through, 
seemed  to  his  disturbed  mind  like  gloomy  monsters 
watching  his  steps,  as  he  half  caught  their  forms 
through  the  thick  twilight,  while  hastening  by  them. 
"  Is  this  the  place  where  I  first  walked  by  the  side  of 
Mary  and  heard  her  voice  ?  "  thought  he,  as  he  passed 
along  the  avenue.  "  It  is  aU  changed,  and  I  'm  left 
alone." 

He  drew  near  the  house.  It  was  lost  in  the  dark- 
ness, except  where  the  heavy  mist  reflected  back  the 
light  of  a  candle  shining  through  the  parlour  window, 
giving  through  the  dimness  to  the  peaks  and  juts  the 
appearance  of  pale,  uncertain  flames  shooting  up  into 
sharp  points.  No  other  light  could  be  seen.  "  How 
quietly  it  shines !  And  is  all  within  as  tranquil  as  that 
flame  ?  No,  Mary,  I  will  not  wrong  you ;  you  could 
not  so  forget  me." 

As  he  came  nearer  the  house,  his  blood  throbbed 
quicker ;  and  he  started  at  the  sound  of  the  beating 
of  his  heart.  He  waited  a  moment  to  gain  a  little 
self-command.  The  door  was  opened  to  him,  and  he 
entered  the  parlour.  Mrs.  Aston  was  in  the  room 
alone.      As  she  turned  and  saw  his  pale   and  worn 


EDWARD    A.\D    MARY.  255 

countenance,  she  started ;  but  suddenly  recovering  her- 
sell",  she  went  up  to  him  and  Took  him  kindly  by  the 
hanil. 

•'  Wliv  have  Viiu  kept  away  lrt)m  us  so  h»ny;  ? "  in- 
quired she,  in  a  gentle  but  agitated  voice.  "  You  do 
not  take  us  tor  summer  tlies,  I  know,  jVIr.  Shirley." 

"  It"  I  did,  Madam,  I  should  not  come  now  to  trouble 
you  this  last  time." 

"  Do  you  go  so  soon  ?  Are  we  not  to  see  you 
again  ?  " 

"  I  must  go  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  hurriedly. 
"  Whether  I  shall  see  you  again,  I  know  not,  I  cannot 
tell." 

"  Better  days  will  come  to  you  ;  you  are  but  a  young 
man,  Mr.  Shirley." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  made  no  reply.  They  both 
continued  for  some  time  silent. 

He  at  last  approached  Mrs.  Aston,  and  said,  "  Can  I 
see  Mary  for  a  few  minutes  before  I  go  ? "  A  slight 
colour  rose  in  his  cheek,  but  the  sad  expression  of  his 
face  was  unchanged  when  he  added,  "  It  would  be 
childish  in  me,  dear  Mrs.  Aston,  to  suppose  that  you 
are  ignf)rant  of  my  feelings.  But,"  the  flush  of  pride 
heightening  his  colour  as  he  spoke,  "  I  believe  you 
know  me  too  well  to  fear,  that,  unskilled  in  aflairs  as  I 
am,  and  with  little  reason  from  my  cast  of  character  for 
hope  of  success,  I  can  be  so  weak  or  selfish  as  to  bind 
another  to  me  in  my  evil  fortunes." 

''  I  need  not  answer  that,  Mr.  Sliirley."  The  tears 
lillcd  her  eyes  as  she  put  out  her  hand  once  more  and 
gave  him  her  blessing.  She  left  the  room,  and,  meeting 
Mary,  told  her  that  Edward  was  below. 

H<;  was  walking  the  room  with  a  hurried  step  as 
Mary  entered.     She  attempted  to  go  towards  him,  but 


256  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

her  frame  shook,  and  she  tottered  towards  a  chah*.  He 
sprang  forward  and  caught  her  before  she  sank  to  the 
floor.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  her  eye  for  a 
moment  glazed.  The  sound  of  his  voice  recalled  her 
senses ;  but  as  she  raised  her  head,  there  was  a  haggard 
look  in  his  countenance  that  made  her  shudder,  and 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  —  "  Do  you  shrink 
from  me,  Mary  ?  "  "  O,  no,  no,  Edward.  But  do  not, 
do  not  look  so  strangely  on  me.  Look  as  calm  and 
Ivind  as  you  spoke  then,  and  I  will  never  turn  from 
you."  —  Her  head  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  and  she 
sobbed  audibly.  His  face  was  turned  upward ;  his 
lips  moved;  he  would  have  prayed  aloud  for  bless- 
ing and  comfort  on  her;  but  an  inarticulate  sound 
was  all  that  reached  Mary's  ear.  She  raised  her  head 
and  gazed  upon  his  face.  How  changed!  Aflliction 
had  not  left  it,  but  there  was  a  brightness,  a  rapture, 
in  it,  which  she  could  almost  have  worshipped.  It 
was  one  of  those  passing  exaltations  of  the  spuit 
which  sometimes  in  our  misery  lift  us  for  a  moiuent 
above  the  earth.     It  left  him,  and  his  countenance-  fell. 

"  Is  it  gone  ?  is  it  gone  ?  "  cried  Mary ;  "  and  is  there 
no  comfort  left  us  ?  " 

"  None,  none,  —  at  least  for  me ! " 

"  O,  do  not  add  to  my  misery,  Edward,  by  being  un- 
generous to  me.  Do  not  say  that  I  can  change  and 
find  comfort,  when  you  cannot." 

"  Forgive  me,  Mary ;  I  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind. 
I  scarce  know  what  I  say;  —  my  brain  has  been  sadly 
bewildered  with  what  I  have  gone  through  in  a  few 
short  days.  But  this  parting  would  not,  you  know  it 
would  not,  be  so  hard  to  me,  could  I  believe  you  a 
creature  made  to  change.  Sit  down  by  me,  and  hear 
me  for  a  moment,  and  then  I  must  leave  you." 


EDWAKD    AND    MARV.  257 

He  spoke  so  low,  and  with  so  iuin.-h  t'llbrt,  thai  his 
voice  was  scarcely  audible  ;  yet  there  was  something 
deteniiined  in  it.  —  "I  eaunot  blame  myself  for  having 
given  way  so  far  to  my  feelings  to-night.  After  what 
passed  between  us  when  we  last  met,  Mary,  it  would 
have  been  unmanly,  it  would  have  been  a  base  insult 
to  the  delicacy  of  your  character,  for  me  to  have  treat- 
ed you  otherwise  now  than  as  if  you  had  acknowledged 
a  return  of  my  love  for  you.  I  have  told  my  father,  — 
I  scarce  know  what  I  have  told  him.  Your  mother 
knows  all.  And  here,  —  all  must  end  here.  We  must 
part,  Mary  I " 

"  All  ?  Then  all  is  to  be  as  thougli  it  had  never 
been.     Say  you  so,  Edward  ?  " 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,  JNIary ;  we  must  not  part  in 
uiikindness.  There  is  enough  of  sorrow  without  that. 
Tliough  I  will  not  give  over  without  a  struggle,  yet  I 
am  i)oor  now,  and  something  tells  me  that,  with  all  my 
efl'orts,  I  shall  die  so.  The  seal  is  on  me,  and  I  shall 
carry  it  to  my  grave,  I  fear.  I  hope  that  is  not  far  off'. 
Could  I  but  see  you  happy,  it  would  be  some  consola- 
tion to  me. —  No,  no,  it  would  not.  I  could  not  bear 
that  all  which  I  have  dwelt  upon  as  so  peculiar  and 
lovely  in  your  character  should  change,  even  to  relieve 
yon  from  what  you  suffer.  Yet  you  must  not  be 
bound  to  me  by  any  understanding  between  us.  I 
know  there  is  that  in  you  which  will  always  make  me 
dear  to  you.  Surely  I  need  not  speak  of  myself;  —  but 
I  see  it  I  —  you  will  never  be  mine  ! " 

"Are  we  to  meet  each  other  no  nion-,  then?  Are 
w<'  to  live  only  in  the  memory  of  each  other,  and 
without  hope?  I  will  be  sincere  with  you,  Edward, 
an<l  will  not  add  to  what  you  suffer  by  saying  that 
voii  roiijd  III*  luiikf  this  .-^acrilict- <li(l  it   (i..-,i    vou  what 


258  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

you  tell  me  it  does.  I  know,"  said  she,  raising  her 
eyes  to  his  with  a  look  of  confidence,  "  the  struggle 
will  be  as  hard  to  you,  and  endure  as  long,  as  with 
me :  I  could  not  say  more.  Miserable  as  it  \vi\\  make 
us,  I  know  that  yoin*  feeling  is  grounded  in  honour. 
And  though  it  may  seem  to  have  connected  with  it  a 
doubt  whether  time  and  absence  may  not  change  my 
love  for  you,  I  cannot  wrong  you  so  much  as  to  think 
you  could  be  so  suspicious  of  me.  I  know  you  better, 
Edward,  indeed  I  do." 

"  This  is  noble  and  generous  in  you,  Mary,"  said  he, 
pressing  her  to  his  heart.  "  I  did  not  look  for  all  this, 
even  from  you.  How  can  I  part  from  you!  Yet  I 
must,  —  it  must  be  done  now ! "  he  cried,  starting  sud- 
denly from  her.  In  a  moment  he  was  ready.  As  he 
turned,  she  came  to  him.  There  was  hopeless  mis- 
ery in  her  face.  She  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  hung  powerless  upon  him  as  he  held  her  to  his 
bosom. 

"  Mary  !  Mary!"  he  repeated.  She  made  no  answer. 
The  w^ind  drove  violently  against  the  wndow,  and  the 
rain  dashed  against  it  like  a  flood.  She  shivered  as  if 
the  cold  blast  struck  her.  "  Must  he  go,  and  in  the 
storm  and  rain  too  ? "  murmmed  she  to  herself.  At 
length  she  raised  herself  a  little.  "  Do  not  fear  for 
me,  Edward.  It  is  past,  —  I  am  better  now.  Go ! 
go !  "  He  stood  for  a  moment,  —  he  would  have  said 
something,  —  it  was  in  vain.  He  caught  her  passion- 
ately to  him,  then,  darting  from  her,  left  the  house. 

Mrs.  Aston  heard  the  door  shut  after  him.  She 
went  down  to  her  daughter,  and  found  her  sitting, 
leaning  forward,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door.  She 
did  not  move  them  as  her  mother  entered ;  and  there 
was  a  stupor  over  her  countenance.     Mrs.  Aston  took 


KOWARP    AND    MARY.  259 

her  by  tlu-  hand,  bur  slio  did  not  appear  to  heed  it. 
"  You  must  go  to  bed,"  said  her  mother,  ))utting  her 
arm  round  her,  and  gently  raising  her  from  tlie  thair. 
She  made  no  answer,  but  suftbred  herself  to  be  partly 
carried  to  her  chamber.  When  she  was  in  bed,  her 
mother  sat  down  by  her;  but  she  seemed  not  to  notice 
it.  and  presently  fell  asleep,  as  if  unconscious  of  what 
had  happened. 

Tiie  night  was  so  dark,  that  the  atmosphere  was 
like  some  deep  black  body  directly  before  the  eye. 
Edward  hurried  forward  down  the  avenue.  The  trees, 
which  raved  and  roared  in  the  wind  like  fiends  of  the 
storm,  serA'ed  to  guide  iiim  by  their  sound.  As  he; 
quitted  them,  and  their  noise  died  gradually  in  the 
distance,  he  groped  liis  way  homeward.  He  reached 
the  house  with  a  mind  as  bewildered  as  in  a  troubled 
dream.  The  instant  change  from  the  tumult  and  up- 
roar of  the  storm  to  the  stillness  and  calm  within 
doors  brought  back  what  had  passed,  with  startling 
suddenness.  He  went  into  the  room  where  Jacob  was 
sitting,  waiting  for  him,  and,  taking  up  a  lamp,  passed 
by  without  looking  at  him.  —  "Poor  Mr.  Edward  I " 
said  Jacob  to  himself,  as  he  took  the  remaining  light  to 
go  to  bed ;  "  it  is  hard  that  you,  who  are  so  good, 
should  suffer  so." 

Iviward  could  not  go  to  rest.  He  went  into  his 
father's  study,  and  then  from  one  room  to  another, 
traversing  the  house.  He  was  for  a  while  in  that 
vague  and  idle  state  which  the  mind  is  thrown  into  at 
intervals,  in  extreme  sulfering,  taking  notice  of  trifles, 
and  remembering  a  multitude  of  umneaning  things, 
whiU'  half  unconscious  of  the  aflliction  which  is  ready 
to  press  again  upon  it.  His  eyes  wandered  vacantly 
over  th«'  iiaki-d  wuiis.  till  tin  v  al  last  rested  on   the  dis- 


260  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

coloured  places  where  the  pictures  had  hung.  He  was 
not  sensible  at  first  at  what  he  was  looking ;  but  his 
mind  was  by  degrees  moved,  and  he  w^as  presently 
brought  again  to  the  recollection  of  his  condition.  If 
the  earth  had  been  swept  of  every  living  tiling  but  him- 
self, the  sense  of  desertion  could  not  have  weighed 
heavier  upon  him.  He  passed  on  to  his  chamber ;  the 
wind  moaned  in  the  chimneys ;  and  as  he  trod  over  the 
bare  floors,  the  empty  house  was  filled  with  the  sharp 
echoes  of  his  steps,  which  seemed  to  chatter  and  mock 
at  him. 

The  next  morning  he  began  his  journey.  The 
violence  of  the  storm  was  over,  but  it  was  a  dull,  di'iz- 
zly  day.  He  passed  it  in  silence,  busy  with  his  melan- 
choly thoughts.  He  took  little  notice  of  what  was 
about  him.  The  home  of  Mary  Aston,  as  he  had  seen 
it  in  storm  and  sunshine,  was  in  his  mind.  He  thought 
of  her  deep  love  for  him,  her  serious  and  unchanging 
mind,  her  frank  and  confiding  looks  and  manner  to- 
wards him.  He  would  have  laid  down  his  life  to  give 
her  that  peace  which  was  hers  before  she  knew^  him. 
He  would  have  done  more,  —  he  would  have  dragged 
on  a  life  of  suffering. 

Jacob  spoke  the  first  word  that  was  uttered.  "  We 
are  half  through  our  journey.  Sir.  I  know  it  by  the 
wood  just  ahead  of  us."  Edward  looked  out  upon 
the  wood,  by  way  of  answer  to  Jacob.  It  was  now 
autumn,  and  the  leaves,  in  their  gaudy  and  varied 
colours,  hung  dripping  and  flagging  in  the  damp  air. 
It  seemed  a  cruel  taunt  upon  the  vain  hopes  and  forced 
mirth  of  the  world.  Edward  shut  his  eyes  upon  the 
sight,  heart-sick.  There  was  none  of  the  spirit  of 
scorn  in  him;  he  felt  it  rather  as  an  emblem  of  his 
own  withered  joys.     The  day  dragged  on  heavily  ;  and 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  261 

he  reached  liis  new  home  about  dark,  tired  in  body  and 
mind. 

One  who  liad  seen  him  wlien  he  met  the  family 
w^ould  have  known  littk^  ot"  what  his  inward  HuH'erings 
were.  Beside  his  aversion  to  discovering  his  deeper 
feelings,  even  to  his  own  family,  he  was  conscious  of 
the  duty  upon  him  to  strengthen  the  fortitude  of  his 
parents.  His  endeavours  were  of  little  benefit  to  his 
father.  Mr.  Shirley  was  of  a  high,  restless  spirit ;  and 
his  sudden  fall  from  wealth  and  distinction  and  the  stir 
of  society  heated  his  w^arm  temperament,  and  he  died 
of  fever,  after  a  few  months'  illness.  Edward  was  as  a 
nurse  to  his  father  through  his  sickness,  and,  after  Mr. 
Shirley's  death,  was  as  kind  and  attentive  to  his  moth- 
er, and  as  anxious  about  those  little  things  which  he 
thought  would  turn  away  her  mind  from  her  alllictions, 
as  if  his  spirit  had  been  free  of  all  trouble,  except  as  it 
concerned  her.  Harriet  spoke  of  it  in  a  letter,  in  an- 
.fwer  to  one  she;  liad  received  from  Mary,  not  long  after 
Mr.  Shirley's  death.  —  "  My  mother  feels  his  kindness 
deeply.  She  cannot  speak  of  it  to  me,  without  shed- 
ding tears.  He  is  soon  to  leave  us.  I  do  not  know 
how  my  mother  will  bear  liis  departure.  Something, 
all  the  while,  is  making  him  secretly  miserable.  I  can 
only  conjecture  what  has  taken  place,  for  your  letter 
reveals  nothing,  and  his  is  so  sacred  a  melancholy,  that 
I  dare  not  break  in  upon  it." 

These  exertions  were  for  Edward's  good.  For  sen- 
fiitive  minds  arc  prone  to  a  melancholy,  wiiich  may 
in  the  end  weaken  the  intellect,  uidess  they 'have 
some  object  to  engage  them,  and  give  action  to  the 
affections. 

Tht!  winter  was  gloomy  and  cold,  tin*  spring  o|>ened 
late,   the   weather   continued   raw   and    umomfortable, 


262  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  there  appeared  to  be  a  sympathizing  dejection 
throughout  nature.  The  time  came  for  Edward's  de- 
parture, and  he  prepared  to  leave  home.  Though  he 
had  sustained  so  hard  a  struggle  in  parting  with  Mary, 
it  was  not  because  he  thought,  for  a  moment,  of  sitting 
down  in  hopeless  inaction  ;  but  his  father's  sickness 
and  death  had  prevented  his  putting  his  plans  into  im- 
mediate execution. 

In  the  midst  of  this  dreariness  and  dejection,  a  re- 
lation of  ]VIrs.  Shirley  returned  from  abroad,  after  an 
absence  of  some  years.  This  gentleman's  name  was 
Pennington.  Though  older  than  Edward's  father,  they 
were  many  years  fast  friends.  Unfortunately,  some 
trifling  controversy  took  place  between  them  ;  and  both 
having  a  little  too  much  pride,  and  enough  of  the  punc- 
tilious character  which  was  so  marked  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned gentry,  a  hasty  altercation  ended  in  a  lasting 
separation ;  for  neither  of  them  could  think  of  making 
advances  toward  a  reconciliation.  Though  this  was  a 
cause  of  mutual  uneasiness,  and  each  in  a  short  time 
felt  the  same  regard  and  attachment  to  the  other  as 
ever,  Mr.  Pennington  went  abroad  on  some  commercial 
speculations  without  their  bidding  each  other  farewell ; 
and  Edward's  father  was  too  proud  to  suffer  his  old 
friend  to  be  made  acquainted  with  the  misfortunes 
which  afterwards  befell  him.  "  It  was  my  hasty  tem- 
per," said  Mr.  Shirley  to  his  son,  a  little  before  his 
death,  "which  made  the  breach  between  us.  I  have 
stood  out  foolishly  against  a  reconciliation ;  and  repent- 
ance comes  too  late." 

Mr.  Pennington  was  much  affected,  on  his  arrival  in 
the  country,  at  hearing  of  Mr.  Shirley's  loss  of  property, 
and  death.  He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Shirley,  and  spoke,  in  the 
most  delicate  manner,  of  the  regret  and  self-reproach 


EpWARD    AND    MARY.  263 

he  felt  in  haviiii^  siuflered  any  criminal  pride  on  his 
part  to  separate  liiin  from  a  man  for  whom  he  had 
ahvayj*  hail  so  great  esteem  and  friendship.  He  ex- 
pressed the  earnest  wish  that  he  micjht  be  allowed  to 
visit  the  family,  and  to  atone  for  the  past,  so  far  as 
was  now  left  to  him,  by  every  mark  of  kindness  and 
regard  which  he  conld  |)ay. 

He  arrived  in  a  few  days,  and  was  received  as  one 
of  his  character  deserv<>d  to  be.  Edward  and  Harriet 
were  delighted  with  him.  Though  a  man  of  deep 
feelings,  he  had  an  energetic  and  clear  mind;  and  at  the 
same  time  that  he  was  not  forgetful,  or  careless  of  the 
loss  of  friends,  or  of  the  suH'erings  of  others,  he  was  pos- 
sessed of  that  practical  philosophy,  which,  by  a  constant 
aim  at  the  improvement  and  happiness  of  those  about 
us,  begets  healthful  activity  of  mind,  and  an  habitual 
cheerfulness  of  the  spirits.  Although  he  had  been  so 
long  abroad,  he  had  lost  nothing  of  his  former  character ; 
and  his  snuft-colourcd,  broad-skirted  coat,  waistcoat- 
flaps,  ample  silver  shoe-buckles,  and  long,  gold-headed 
cane,  showed  him  as  little  changed  in  dress.  His  ad- 
dress had  the  courtly  formality  of  the  old  school.  It 
was  not  a  mere  cumbersome  ceremony,  because  it  was 
made  up  of  so  delicate  and  respectful  regards  to  others' 
feelings,  that,  with  all  its  manner,  it  seeuK^l  a  simj)le 
einnciiee  of  the  heart.  He  was  altogether  an  excellent 
sam|)le  of  an  old-fashioned,  thorough-bred  gentleman. 

As  far  advanced  in  life  as  he  was,  he  had  not  lost  his 
syrnj)athy  with  the  feelings  of  the  young;  and  the 
uncommon  cast  of  Rd ward's  character,  the  beautiful 
propriety  of  his  manner,  and  the  deference  which  he 
showed  to  age,  won  so  immediately  upon  the  old  man's 
heart,  that,  upon  hearing  from  Mrs.  Shirley  that  her  son 
was  about  leaving  home  to  try   his   rortmie.  abroad,  he 


264  THE    IDLE    MAN« 

cried  out,  —  "  What !  my  friend's  son  turn  adventur- 
er, and  I  sitting  at  home  at  my  ease,  with  nothing  but 
my  wealth  to  plague  me !  No !  that  must  never  be. 
If  he  loves  the  girl,  he  shall  have  her,  and  that  without 
ever  setting  foot  on  shipboard  ;  for  they  tell  me  she  is 
worthy  of  him ;  and  that  is  saying  enough  for  any  girl, 
God  bless  her ! "  —  Having  made  up  his  mind,  and  with 
his  heart  full  of  the  matter,  with  that  alacrity  which 
belongs  to  a  vigorous  old  man,  he  left  the  room  for  the 
purpose  of  falling  in  with  Edward. 

They  met  at  the  outer  door. 

"  You   are   going  to   walk,"    said    Mr.   Pennington. 

"  You  are  rather  a  grave  and  silent  companion,  but  as 

I  am  a  talkative  old  gentleman,  and  like  to  be  listened 

to,  it  is  so  much  the  better.      Will  you  allow  iTie  to 

join  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  me  worthy  to  be  a  listener,  Sir,  it 
will  give  me  great  pleasure." 

After  walking  a  little  way  into  a  wood  back  of  the 
house,  Mr.  Pennington  began  speaking  of  his  large 
fortune,  and  his  success  in  the  management  of  it 
abroad. 

"  I  have  done  with  business,  Mr.  Shirley,  and  am 
growing  so  old  and  lazy,  that  half  my  fortune,  I  am 
afraid,  will  only  be  a  ti'ouble  to  me.  I  have  been  imper- 
tinent enough  to  seek  out  from  your  mother  and  sister 
the  cause  of  your  low  spirits.  I  depend  iipon  your  for- 
giveness, by  telling  you  I  have  that  will  cure  you."  — 
Edward  coloured,  and  was  about  speaking.  —  "  Stop  I  " 
said  Mr.  Pennington  ;  "  you  forget  your  part,  —  you  are 
the  listener.  It  is  I  must  do  the  talking.  I  have  taken 
it  into  my  head  to  do  the  very  thing  your  father  would 
have  done  for  a  child  of  mine  had  our  situations  been 
reversed:  I'm   going  to  make   you  ray  principal  heii*. 


EDWARD    AND    MARY 


265 


But  as  I  am  growing  old  and  might  in  some  fond  mo- 
ment fall  in  love  with  my  housekeeper,  to  make  you  sure, 
I  have  determined  to  settle  an  annuity  upon  you  this 
very  day.  Hold  your  peace,  Sir  ;  I  have  not  done  yet. 
The  principal  creditor  took  the  mansion-house  and  fur- 
niture. He  has  been  bought  out  at  a  good  bargain,  and 
he  cpiitted  yesterday.  So,  ever\^hing  is  standing  just 
as  it  did  in  better  days.  I  intended  that  your  mother 
should  have  gone  back  to  the  mansion ;  but  as  she  has 
determined  to  occupy  the  small  house  near  it,  you  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  start  off  in  the  morning,  and  take 
possession  of  the  homestead.  I  give  you  joy  of  such  a 
fine  girl  as  they  say  Miss  Aston  is.  There  's  my  hand, 
I\Ir.  Shirley."  Edward  pressed  it,  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "  Come,  come,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  forcing 
a  laugh  ;  "  't  is  altogether  a  melancholy  aftair,  I  know ; 
but  then  we  will  try  to  drown  it  in  a  glass  of  wine 
at  diimer.  The  deuce  is  in  it,  if  I  don't  make  you 
drink  with  me." 

He  turned  off  suddenly  down  a  straggling  foot-path, 
and  left  Edward  so  surprised,  that  he  scarcely  knew 
whether  it  was  joy  or  sorrow  that  so  confused  his 
senses. 

"  Your  brother  is  certainly  dumfounded,"  said  Mr. 
Pennington,  after  dinner.  "  You  and  I,  Harriet,  have 
had  the  talking  thrown  upon  us,  as  nsnal." 

"  Harriet  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Edward,  "  and  has 
done  her  duty,  as  she  always  does  in  like  cases." 

"  You  must  excuse  my  brother,  Mr.  Pennington. 
He  is  melancholy  at  the  thought  of  h-aving  us. 
Cheer  up,  Edward ;  you  sha'  n't  long  be  left  alom-.  We 
shall  be  after  you  in  a  few  days,  to  take  possession  of 
our  new  habitation.  Pray  fell  me,  are  you  and  .laeob 
to  occupy  the  big  house  togeliier,  (like  the  Master  of 

VOL.  I.  '2'-i 


266 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


Ravenswood  and  old  Caleb,)  with  Peggy  for  house- 
keeper ?  By  the  by,  Edward,"  tapping  his  shoulder, 
as  she  ran  by  him  out  of  the  room,  "  and  before  you 
swallow  that  wine,  glass  and  all,  if  you  chance  to  see 
Miss  Aston,  give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  we  are 
coming,    and    hope    to    make    good   neighbours    once 


more." 


"  A  madcap,  that  girl,"  said  JVIr.  Pennington.  "  Come, 
Mr.  Shirley,  one  glass  to  your  to-morrow's  journey,  and 
I  am  done." 

At  night,  Edward  bade  his  mother  good-by,  and 
prepared  for  his  morning's  journey  with  feelings  so 
tumultuous  that  they  were  almost  painful  to  him.  He 
was  stirring  with  the  birds,  and  faithful  Jacob  being 
punctually  at  the  door,  he  sprang  lightly  into  the  car- 


nage. 


It  was  a  fine  morning,  after  a  shower,  the  sky  of  a 
clear  deep  blue,  the  piled  clouds  tinged  by  the  sun. 
The  rain-drops  were  falling  from  the  trees  like  pearl, 
and  the  blossoms  sailing  gently  down  and  scattering 
themselves  like  snow-flakes  over  the  grass.  The  air 
was  breezy  and  fresh,  stirring  the  frame  with  sensations 
of  delight ;  and  the  brooks  ran  shining  on,  prattling 
like  young  living  things  noisy  with  joy.  But  an  image 
more  beautiful,  and  faker  than  all  these,  was  before 
Edward's  eyes.  He  saw  it  between  the  gi-een  trees, 
and  resting  upon  the  white  clouds  ;  its  voice  was  in 
the  clouds,  and  by  the  sides  of  the  rocks.  There  are 
chosen  hours  when  some  men  have  a  consciousness 
of  more  life  than  falls  to  others  in  a  multitude  of 
years.  The  horses  swept  quickly  round  the  turnings 
of  the  road ;  there  was  a  swift  and  constant  changing 
of  objects  going  on ;  everything  upon  the  earth  seemed 
in  action,  and  he  felt  as  if  there  was  a  spirit  of  motion 
within  him,  bearing  him  forward. 


EDWARD     AM)    MARY.  267 

Long  before  sunset,  they  began  to  enter  upon  the 
scenery  familiar  to  them.  They  soon  came  in  sight  of 
the  house.  It  was  no  longer  gloomy  and  deserted,  the 
doors  locked  and  shutters  barred ;  but  the  windows 
were  thrown  up,  and  doors  wide  open,  as  if  it  were  a 
holiday ;  and  the  tenants,  and  the  domestics  who  had 
remained  in  the  neighbourhood,  could  be  seen  pointing 
OUT  to  each  other  the  carriage  as  it  wound  up  the  road. 
Jii  a  few  uiinutes  Edward  sprang  out  into  the  midst  of 
tiiem ;  and  there  were  more  glad  faces  about  him  than, 
a  week  before,  he  could  have  believed  were  contained 
in  the  whole  world.  So  does  our  state  change  our  no- 
tions of  things. 

When  wishing  joy,  anjd  "  How  do  ye  do  ?  "  were  over, 
old  Jacob  was  in  the  full  tide  of  narrative,  making  short 
stops  now  and  then,  —  which  served  as  reliefs  to  his 
story,  —  to  answer  the  little  by-questions  thrown  in  by 
some  impatient  auditor.  As  soon  as  Edward  could 
leave  those  who  had  come  together  at  the  house,  with- 
out seeming  to  slight  them,  he  stole  away,  that  he 
might  get  ready  to  visit  Mary. 

Soon  after  the  rich  Mr.  Pennington's  return,  there 
had  been  rumours  afloat  that  he  had  bought  the  old 
estate,  and  then  others  of  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Shirley ;  and 
when  the  occupant  moved  out,  a  day  or  two  before 
Edward's  arrival,  the  story  was  rife,  though  all  matter 
of  guess,  that  Mr.  Pennington  had  made  over  the 
estate  to  the  family.  These  and  other  rumours  rdached 
Mrs.  Aston's.  Mary  began  1o  think  it  not  impossil)le 
that  some  of  them  might  bi-  partially  true;  then  her 
hopes  grew  stronger,  and  with  them  her  fears,  h'or  if 
accounts  were  true,  why  had  she  imt  lirard  from  \\i\- 
ward  ?     She  never  for  a  moment  doubted  his  allection. 

As  .she    was    sitting    at   the    window,    and    Idokiii-^' 


268  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

toward  the  road,  she  heard  two  men,  who  were  passing 
down  the  lane  which  led  by  the  house,  say  something 
about  old  Jacob,  and  young  Mr.  Shirley's  carriage. 
"  He  is  come,  then ! "  said  she  aloud,  as  she  sprang 
from  her  seat  and  ran  to  the  door,  as  if  to  meet  him. 
"  Who  is  come  ?  "  asked  her  mother.  Mary  had  for- 
gotten, at  the  instant,  that  her  mother  was  in  the  room. 
"  No  one,"  she  answered,  in  a  sunken  voice,  and 
hurrying  into  the  opposite  room,  shut  the  door.  Mrs. 
Aston  withdrew  to  her  chamber.  As  Mary  walked  the 
room,  the  fluctuation  of  doubt  and  hope  was  torture 
to  her.  After  a  time  she  grew  more  composed ;  a  light 
seemed  to  break  in  upon  her,  and  hope  became  almost 
certainty. 

It  was  about  the  same  hour,  and  the  evening  much 
the  same  with  that  when  Edward  met  Mary  the  fii-st 
time.  He  remembered  it  as  he  walked  towards  the 
house ;  and  delightful  recollections,  mingling  with  Ms 
expectations,  heightened  them  and  made  them  more 
real.  Mary  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  through  the  trees, 
at  the  instant  he  saw  her  at  the  window.  They  both 
started  back.  He  then  hurried  eagerly  forward;  but 
she  was  gone.  He  entered  the  house,  and  opening  the 
door  of  the  room  suddenly,  Mary  stood  before  him, 
motionless  and  pale.  "  Mary ! "  he  cried.  The  blood 
rushed  to  her  cheeks  at  the  sound ;  she  started  forward, 
and  threw  herself  into  his  arms.  There  was  perfect 
stillness.  He  felt  her  heart  beat  as  he  held  her  to  him. 
Nature  at  last  gave  way ;  she  sobbed  out  aloud,  and  in 
a  voice  broken  with  a  wild  laugh,  she  cried,  — "  Is  it 
Edward  ?  And  is  it  true  I  am  his  ?  And  are  we  no 
more  to  part  ?  "  —  "  You  are  indeed  mine  now,  Mary ; 
look  at  me,  and  make  it  real  to  me."  —  She  raised 
"her  head,  her  hands  resting  on  his  shoulders ;  her  eyes 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  269 

swam  with  tears,  but  a  bright  joy  broke  through  them, 
which  came  from  tlie  very  soul,  and  her  face  was  all 
tremulous  witli  the  iiitensencss  ot"  love.  He  kissed 
away  the  tear  on  her  lid  ;  and  as  he  gazed  upon  her 
face,  and  fondly  parted  back  the  hair  from  her  forehead, 
tears  started  in  his  eyes,  answering  to  hers.  It  was  a 
moment  too  full  of  feeling  for  words. 

When  they  grew  more  calm,  and  Mary  sat  by  him 
with  her  hand  in  his,  he  told  her  hastily  what  his  good 
old  relation  had  done  for  them.  Mary  breathed  out 
a  blessing  upon  him.  Then  turning,  and  looking  up  in 
Edward's  face,  —  "  To  remember,"  said  she,  "  how  hag- 
gard and  strange  you  seemed  when  we  parted,  and 
now  to  see  you  look  upon  me  so  fond  and  happy, 
—  O,  it  makes  me  forget  myself,  in  my  joy  for  what 
you  feel  I  " 

In  talking  of  the  past  and  giving  utterance  to  the 
present  fulness  of  feeling,  they  forgot  that  the  night 
was  wearing  away.  "  It  is  time  for  you  to  go,"  said 
Mary,  at  last.  —  "I  know  it ;  the  thought  that  we  are 
to  meet  to-morrow  makes  me,  I  could  almost  say,  more 
than  wiUing  tt)  part  now." 

As  they  separated  half  way  down  the  walk,  it  was 
the  happiest  good-night  they  had  ever  bid  each  other. 

Life  now  was  deep  and  wide  joy  to  them ;  all  things 
that  grew  looked  like  sharers  in  a  common  delight,  and 
a  checrfnl  and  sympathizing  benevolence  made  the 
world  aj)pear  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  gladness  and 
good-will  amongst  men.  'J'heir  souls  seemed  from  day 
to  day  to  become  closer  united,  and  to  be  fast  making, 
as  it  were,  hiit  one  heini:. —  It  was  not  long  hclDii" 
Mary  l)e(';iiin'  tin-  wilr  ol    Ivlward. 

23* 


PAUL    FELT  ON. 


The  sick, 
In  my  mind,  are  covetous  of  liiofe  disease. 

YoWNO. 

From  his  intellect, 
And  from  the  stillness  of  abstracted  thought, 
He  asked  repose. 

Wordsworth. 

And  fears,  and  fancies,  thick  upon  Tiie  came ; 

Dim  sadness,  and  blind  thoughts  I  knew  not  nor  could  name. 

Same. 

Who  thinks,  and  feels, 
And  recognizes  ever  and  anon 
The  breeze  of  Nature  stirring  in  his  soul. 
Why  need  such  man  go  desperately  astray, 
And  nurse  "  the  dreadful  appetite  of  death  ?  " 

Same. 

Do  not  torment  me  ! 

Shakspeare. 

Pray,  and  beware  the  foul  fiend. 

Same. 


Paul  Felton  was  the  son  of  a  well-educated  coun- 
try gentleman  of  moderate  fortune,  who,  having  lost 
his  wife  early  in  life,  took  upon  himself  the  educa- 
tion of  his  son  and  daughter,  as  a  relief  to  his  melan- 
choly, and  that  he  might  not  be  deprived  of  their 
society. 

The  retired  life  which  the  father  led  prevented  the 


P.M  I.    FKI-TON.  271 

son's  forming  many  acciuaintam-os,  and  cht'ckcd  those 
open,  communicative  feelings  which  make  schoolboys 
so  pleasing.  The  serious  and  reserved  manners  which 
the  father  had  fallen  into,  rather  from  his  loss  tlian 
from  anything  native  to  his  disposition,  made  an  early 
impression  on  the  son;  and  from  childhood  Paul  was 
retired,  silent,  and  thoughtful.  His  character  was  of  a 
strong  cast ;  and  not  being  left  to  its  free  play  among 
equals,  it  worked  with  a  force  increased  by  its  pent-up 
and  secret  action. 

The  people  of  the  neighbourhood  were  illiterate  and 
uncouth,  having,  for  the  most  part,  that  rough  and  bold 
bearins:  which  comes  from  a  union  of  ignorance  and 
independence.  Paul's  distant  manner  appeared  to 
them  like  an  assumption  of  superiority ;  and  on  any 
occasions  which  otlered,  they  were  careful  to  show 
their  dislike  of  it.  Tliis  not  only  increased  his  reserve, 
but  gave  to  his  mind  a  habit  of  looking  on  strangers 
as  in  some  sort  enemies ;  and  when  passing  any  one 
who  was  not  a  familiar,  he  felt  as  if  there  were  some- 
thing like  mutual  hostility  between  them.  With  all 
this  he  had  good  aflfections;  and  when  looking  out 
from  his  solitude  upon  the  easy  and  mingling  cheerful- 
ness of  some,  and  the  strong  attachments  which  here 
and  there  bound  others  together,  he  saw  how  beauti- 
ful was  that  which  was  companional^le  and  kind  in  the 
heart  of  man,  and  liis  eye  rested  on  it,  and  his  soul 
longed  after  it. 

So  evil,  however,  is  the  nature  of  men,  that  almost 
the  love  of  what  is  excellent  may  lead  us  astray,  if 
we  do  not  take  heed  to  the  way  in  which  we  seek  it; 
and  we  may  see,  and  understantl,  and  wish  for  it,  till 
we  come  to  envy  it  in  another:  we  may  gaze  upon  a 
charaftt^T  that   is   fair,  and   eh-vaiid,  mid   happ\.lill    w- 


272  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

feel  its  very  goodness  stirring  in  us  dislike.  Paul  had 
no  settled  ill-will  towards  any  one,  though  perhaps 
there  was  mingled  with  his  repining  somewhat  of 
envy  at  the  happiness  and  ease  of  mind  in  others. 

As  he  advanced  in  Hfe,  his  passions  waxed  stronger, 
and  he  craved  an  object  about  which  they  might  live 
and  grow.  His  retired  habits,  however,  had  left  him 
without  any  of  that  careless  confidence  which  in  so 
wonderful  a  manner  helps  along  the  man  of  the  world ; 
and  with  a  consciousness  of  his  own  powers,  he  was 
distrustful  of  his  ability  to  make  them  known,  and  of 
the  estimate  which  others  would  put  upon  them.  This 
same  distrust  ran  into  all  his  feelings ;  and  -with  a 
character  to  love  earnestly  and  tenderly,  the  fear  that 
his  personal  appearance  and  somewhat  awkward  man- 
ners deprived  him  of  the  power  of  showing  of  what 
his  heart  ^vas  susceptible  made  him  almost  miserable 
at  the  thought  that  such  feelings  were  ever  given  to 
him.  — "  When  I  am  tired  of  solitude,"  he  would  say 
to  himself,  "  and  my  heart  aches  with  the  void  I  feel, 
shall  that  which  I  am  conscious  of  within  me  as  beau- 
tiful and  true  be  made  scoff  of  by  another,  because  I 
have  not  the  fair  form  and  manner  of  other  men,  and 
my  tongue  cannot  so  well  tell  what  is  within  me  ? 
Shall  all  that  is  sincere  in  me  be  questioned,  or  looked 
on  with  indifference?"  So  far  had  even  his  good 
affections  become  a  torment  to  him,  that  all  was  at 
war  and  in  opposition  in  his  character.  At  one  time 
he  was  busy  in  scornful  speculation  and  doubt  upon 
his  passions ;  and  at  another  he  would  urge  them  on, 
and  give  them  rein,  that  he  might  feel  the  self-torture 
they  would  bring.  No  one  thing  was  left  to  its  natural 
play,  and  as  making  a  due  part  of  his  daily  life,  but  ex- 
isted in  excess,  or  not  at  all.     This  change  and  opposi- 


PAUL    FELTON.  273 

tioii  broke  up  that  settled  state  in  which  the  sense  of 
truth  puts  us,  and  left  him  disturbed ;  till  at  last  his 
mind  seemed  given  for  little  else  than  to  speculate  upon 
his  feelings,  to  part  or  unite  them,  or  to  quell  them 
only  again  to  inllame  them. 

He  who  so  far  questions  his  own  nature  will  ques- 
tion everything,  and  bring  the  most  pain  and  misery 
on  those  who  are  dearest  to  him,  because  he  is  for  ever 
asking  for  an  assurance  of  returned  affections,  and 
seeking  that  assurance  in  tiie  power  he  can  exert  over 
the  object  he  loves.  He  inflicts  his  tortures,  and  still 
doubts;  and  goes  on  to  the  end,  working  his  own  mis- 
ery, and  seeing  the  object  of  which  lie  is  most  fond 
perishing,  like  himself,  the  victim  of  his  diseased  crav- 
ings. 

l^aul  was  nearly  alone  in  the  world.  His  father  was 
for  the  most  part  lost  in  his  own  thoughts.  His  sister, 
though  lively  and  talkative,  had  neither  depth  of  feel- 
ing nor  strength  of  intellect  enough  for  him.  Much 
action  and  sound  to  httle  purpose  wore  on  his  spirit ; 
and  though  he  was  not  without  alTection  lor  iier,  a 
sneer  would  sometimes  escape  him  in  his  imj)atience. 
He  would  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber,  or,  without 
so  much  as  a  dog  for  a  companion,  wander  oil"  where 
no  human  being  was  to  be  met  with. 

He  iiad  now  lived  several  years  a  self-tormentor,  and 
without  communion  with  any  one  to  relieve  his  mind, 
when  Estlicr  Waring,  the  daughter  of  his  father's 
friend,  came  on  a  visit  io  his  sister.  Her  disposition 
was  cheerful  and  s(»rial  ;  and  she  had  an  active, 
thonghtl'nl  mind,  which  dri-w  and  iixed  the  attention 
of  those  with  whom  she  talked.  Her  leelings  were 
quick  and  kind,  and  the  tenor  of  her  lliinking  and  re- 
marks  sliowrd   that    thi'v   were  di'ep.      I  [cr   l)|;i(k    hair 


274  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

fell  round  her  dark,  quiet  eyes,  which  seemed  to  rest 
on  what  the  mind  was  showing  them ;  and  when  she 
spoke,  a  light  shone  through  them  from  the  very  re- 
cesses of  the  soul,  as  the  stars  shoot  up  from  the  depths 
of  the  waters,  brightening  what  they  shine  through. 
Her  form  was  beautifully  moulded ;  and  her  movements 
had  that  pliableness  and  delicacy  which  so  touch  and 
interest  men  of  grave  or  melancholy  natures. 

Paul  would  often  ramble  among  the  hills,  dwelling 
upon  his  own  thoughts,  and  seeking  for  sympathy  in 
nature ;  but  she  did  not  always  answer  him ;  and  then 
it  was  that  he  stood  like  a  withered  thing  amid  her 
fresh  and  living  beauty.  Sometimes  he  would  sit 
alone  on  one  of  the  peaks  in  the  chain  of  the  neigh- 
bouring hills,  and  look  out  on  the  country  beneath 
him,  as  if  imploring  to  be  taken  to  a  share  of  the  joy 
which  it  seemed  sensible  to,  as  it  lay  in  the  sunshine. 
He  would  call,  in  spirit,  to  the  birds  that  passed  over 
him,  and  to  the  stream  that  wound  off  till  lost  in  the 
common  brightness  of  the  day,  to  stay  and  comfort 
him.  They  heard  him  not,  but  left  him  to  cares,  and 
the  waste  of  tinne,  and  his  own  thoughts. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  melancholy  days  that  he 
returned  home  about  dusk,  and  not  having  heard  of 
the  arrival  of  a  stranger,  entered  the  parlour  with  a 
gloomy  countenance,  his  eyes  cast  down,  his  full,  black 
eyebrows  bent  together,  and  his  lips  moving,  as  if  he 
were  lost  in  talk  with  himself.  Without  observing  that 
there  was  any  one  in  the  room,  he  walked  directly  to 
the  window,  and  stood  looking  out  on  the  evening  sky. 
His  powerful  face,  and  the  characteristic  inovement 
of  his  body,  attracted  the  attention  of  Esther ;  and  her 
eyes  fixed  on  him  unconsciously  as  he  stood  partly 
turned  from  her.     He  was  below  the  common  height. 


PAVL    FELTON.  275 

with  a  person  of  a  somewhat  heavy  mould,  square,  and 
muscular ;  but  lie  had  the  air  and  bearing  of  one  of  a 
deep,  resolute,  and  thoughtful  mind,  —  as  being  one  of 
those  men,  whom,  if  a  woman  loves  at  all,  she  loves 
with  the  devotion  of  a  mart\T. 

"Paul  I"'  said  his  father.  —  "Sir?"  answered  Paul, 
without  turning  his  head.  — "  Here  is  my  old  friend's 
daughter,  Aliss  Waring.*' 

Little  used  to  society,  and  watchful  lest  others  should 
mark  his  defects,  his  manner,  when  in  company,  was  at 
all  times  somewhat  embarrassed.  He  turned  and  saw 
the  fair  face  of  Esther.  It  was  shghtly  flushed  ;  and  the 
light  which  filled  her  eyes  and  played  over  her  counte- 
nance broke  upon  the  gloomy  face  of  Paul,  and  touched 
the  sluggish  spirit  within  liim  with  a  sensation  of 
warmth  and  life.  He  made  such  apology  lor  his  inat- 
tention as  his  sudden  introduction  would  allow.  His 
maimer  was  constrained,  and  a  little  awkward.  It  was, 
however,  the  constraint  of  that  certain  sensitiveness 
which  gives  more  interest  and  pleasure  than  the  sort 
of  acquired,  conventional  ease  and  grace  so  common 
in  society. 

A  country  tea-table  is  a  social  aflair ;  and  Paul  soon 
lost  a  little  of  his  taciturnity.  The  presence  of  an 
agreeable  stranger  is  a  great  restorer  of  the  spirits  to 
those  who  are  but  little  in  the  world;  and  the  mixture 
of  the  j)layful  and  the  serious  in  Estlier's  cojiversation, 
and  the  freshness  which  we  feel  coming  from  a  new 
mind,  kept  Paul  till  a  late  iiour  in  the  j)arlour.  His 
next  day's  walk  was  somewhat  shortened,  and  the  reg- 
ular tread  of  his  step,  as  he  |)aced  his  cliaml)er,  was  not 
heard  so  long,  and  was  often  broken.  It  was  evident 
that  the  settled  gloom  of  the  mind  was  from  day  to 
day  breaking  up,  n<\v  tiionglits  and  (tbjeets  coming  in, 


276  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  that  which  had  bound  the  soul  like  ice  melting 
and  loosening,  and  passing  off.  He  continued  his 
walks  more  from  habit  than  to  relieve  the  intenseness 
of  his  thoughts ;  and  his  path  lay  less  over  the  heath 
and  sand  than  usual,  and  more  among  the  grass,  and 
trees,  and  flowers ;  his  sense  of  the  beautiful  was  be- 
coming more  wakeful,  and  the  sternness  of  his  nature 
was  softening. 

The  change  went  on  so  gradually  and  secretly,  that 
it  was  a  long  time  before  he  was  conscious  that  any 
was  taking  place.  After  breakfast,  he  loitered  in  the 
parlour,  and  his  evening  passed  away  in  quiet  conver- 
sation with  Esther.  The  beautiful  blending  of  the 
thoughtful  and  gay  in  her  manner  and  remarks  played 
on  him  like  sun  and  shade  on  the  earth,  beneath  a 
tree;  and  tranquillizing  and  gentle  emotions  were 
stealing   into    him  unawares. 

Nor  was  it  he  alone  whose  heart  was  touched. 
Paul  was  not  a  man  whom  a  woman  could  be  long 
with  and  remain  indifferent  to.  The  strength  of  pas- 
sion and  intellect  so  distinctly  marked  in  his  features, 
in  the  movements  of  the  face,  and  in  his  gestures,  — 
the  deep,  rich,  mellow  tone  of  his  voice,  with  a  cer- 
tain mysterious  seriousness  over  the  whole,  —  excited 
a  restless  curiosity  to  get  more  into  his  character ; 
and  a  woman  who  is  at  the  trouble  of  prying  into  the 
constitution  of  a  man's  heart  and  mind  is  in  great 
danger  of  falling  in  love  with  him  for  her  pains.  Es- 
ther did  not  make  this  reflection  when  she  began ;  and 
so  taken  up  was  she  in  the  pursuit,  that  she  never 
once  thought  what  it  might  end  in,  nor  of  turning 
back. 

Paul  was  differently  educated  from  the  run  of  men ; 
his  father  disliked  the  modern  system,  and  so  Paul's 


PAUL    FKLTON.  277 

miiul  was  no  eiicyolopirdia,  nor  book  of  general  refer- 
ence. He  read  not  over-varioiisly,  bnt  with  much 
care ;  and  his  reading  h\y  back  among  original  thinkers, 
and  those  who  were  ahnost  snpernatnrally  versed  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  heart  of  man.  Their  clear  and  direct 
manner  t)t"  uttering  their  thongiits  had  given  a  dis- 
tinctness to  his  opinions,  and  a  plain  way  of  express- 
ing them  ;  and  what  he  had  to  say  savoured  of  in- 
dividuality and  reflection.  He  was  a  mail  precisely 
calculated  to  interest  a  woman  of  feeling  and  good 
sense,  who  had  grown  tired  of  the  elegant  and  in- 
deiinite. 

He  never  thought  of  the  material  world  as  formed 
on  purpose  to  be  put  into  a  crucible;  nor  did  he 
analyze  it  and  talk  upon  it,  as  if  he  knew  quite  as 
much  about  it  as  He  who  made  it.  To  him  it  was  a 
grand  and  beautiful  mystery,  —  in  liis  better  moments, 
a  holy  one.  It  was  power,  and  intellect,  and  love, 
made  visible,  calling  out  the  sympathies  of  his  being, 
and  causing  him  to  feel  the  living  Pres(Mice  throughout 
the  whole.  Material  became  intellectual  beauty  with 
him  ;  he  was  as  a  part  of  the  great  universe,  and  all  he 
looke<l  upon,  or  thouglit  on,  was  in  some  way  connect- 
ed with  his  own  mind  and  heart.  The  conversation  of 
such  a  man,  (begin  where  it  might,)  always  tending 
liomeward  to  the  bosom,  was  not  likely  to  pass  from 
a  woman  like  Esther,  without  leaving  some  thoughts 
which  would  be  dear  to  licr  to  mingle  with  her  own, 
or  without  raising  cuioiions  which  she  would  lovt^ 
to    cherish. 

Two  minds  of  a  musing  cast  \\  ill  have  some  valucil 
feelings  and  sentiments,  which  will  soon  make  an  in- 
tergrowth  and  become  bound  togc^thcr.  Where  this 
liaj)pens  in  reserved  minds,  it  goes  on  so  secretly  and 

vol..   I.  til 


278  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

spreads  so  widely  before  it  is  found  out,  that,  when  at 
last  one  thought  or  passion  is  touched  by  some  little 
circumstance,  or  word,  or  look,  a  sympathizing  feeling 
runs  through  the  whole ;  and  they  who  had  not  before 
intimated  or  so  much  as  known  that  they  loved,  find 
themselves  in  full  and  familiar  union,  with  one  heart 
and  one  being. 

Esther's  visit  had  now  continued  so  long,  that  she 
was  sensible  it  was  proper  for  her  to  return  home,  un- 
less urged  to  remain ;  but  it  so  happened  that  she 
never  thought  of  going,  without  at  the  same  time 
thinking  of  Paul ;  and  with  that  came  a  procrasti- 
nating, lingering  spirit.  There  was  always  something 
happening,  which  was  reason  enough  for  her  putting 
off  the  mention  of  the  affair.  She  would  half  per- 
suade herself  that  Paul  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
delay ;  but  her  heart  beat  quicker,  and  then  she  would 
feel  that  she  was  trying  to  deceive  herself.  "  There  is 
something  strangely  inscrutable  in  him.  Would  I 
could  see  into  that  sealed-up  heart ! " 

The  hour  came ;  but,  in  spite  of  her  efforts,  her  voice 
was  tremulous  when  she  spoke  of  leaving  for  home. 
Paul  was  sitting  opposite  to  her  at  the  table.  He 
looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  hers.  The  colour  came  to 
his  cheek  :  she  blushed,  and  her  eyes  fell  beneath  his. 
Mr.  Felton  and  his  daughter  protested  against  her  go- 
ing.    "  I  hope "  said    Paul  at  last.      She  looked 

up  at  him  once  more.  He  coloured  deeper  than  be- 
fore, and  was  silent.  It  stung  him  to  the  quick  that 
any  one  should  see  the  struggle  of  his  feelings ;  and  he 
left  the  room. 

As  he  traversed  his  chamber,  his  step  grew  quicker 
and  quicker,  and,  instead  of  gaining  composure,  his 
mind  was  more  and  more  agitated.     He  became  too 


TAIL  FELTON.  279 

impaTieut  to  boar  it  any  longer,  aiul  was  hurrying  out 
to  find  relief  in  the  open  air,  when  he  met  Esther 
coming  from  the  parlour.  Ashamed  to  let  Paul  sec 
her  emotion,  she  was  passing  him  with  her  lace  turned 
from  him. 

'•  The  show  of  concern,"  said  Paul,  without  calling 
her  by  name,  —  Esther  stopped,  —  "  the  show  of  con- 
cern for  us,  in  some,  may  seem  impertinent,  and  oft'end 
us  more  than  their  inditf(Tence.  If  I  was  too  obtru- 
sive just  now,  let  me  hope  for  your  forgiveness." 

"  Mr.  Felton  ollicious !  And  can  he  think  me  so 
frivolous  or  vain  a  girl  as  not  to  feel  any  token  of  re- 
gard from  him  a  causfe  for  self-esteem  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  humble  myself  to  extort  praise,  INIiss 
Waring ;  it  is  enough  if  I  have  not  offended." 

"  Neither  did  I  mean  it  as  praise.  I  was  not  so 
weak  as  to  think  your  self-approval  needed  my  good 
opinion  to  support  it." 

'•  Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  replied  Paul.  "  I  spoke 
in  true  humility,  and  not  in  pride.  Not  to  have  offend- 
ed you  was  all  I  dared  look  lor." 

"  Has  it  ever  seemed  to  you  that  any  of  your  many 
notices  were  other  than  grateful  to  me?  If  so,  my 
manner  but  poorly  expresses  what  I  feel.  Go  where  I 
may,  Mr.  Felton,  J  shall  remembj'r  how  much  my 
mind  owes  to  you,  and  how  much  the  thoughts  you 
have  given  it  have  done  for  my  heart.  And  I  hope 
it  is  not  in  my  disposition  to  be  thankh^ss  for  any  good 
I  may  receive." 

"  Had  I  a  claim,"  answered  Paul,  '■  it  is  not  your 
gratitude!  1  would  ask  for.  'I'he  heart  that  longs  for 
sympathy  and  finds  it  not,  what  else  can  touch  it? 
Forgive  me;  I  know  not  what  I  say.  —  'i'o  Ix'  remem- 
bered in  liindn«'ss  by  you,  Esther,  shall  be  a  drop  to 
comfort  this  thirsty  soul." 


280  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  And  can  a  soul  large  as  yours,  and  filled  with  all 
things  to  delight  another's  mind,  seem  desolate  to 
you  ?  " 

"Is  the  mind  enough  to  itself,  think  you,  Esther? 
Or  can  the  imagination  satisfy  the  cravings  here,  at  the 
heart  ?  " 

"  The  heart  that  does  crave  fellowship  strongly  may 
surely  find  it,  if  we  do  not  perversely,  and  for  our  self- 
torture,  shut  it  out." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  not  every  passer-by  that  1  would  go 
with.  O,  she  must  be  one  so  excellent,  so  much  above 
me!  And  yet  I  would  not  take  her,  did  she  come  to 
me  in  mercy  only.  I  cannot  think  on 't.  For  me 
there  is  no  fellow.  I  must  go  alone,  alone,  through  this 
populous  earth,"  he  said,  leaving  her  suddenly. 

As  he  went  along,  his  eye  passed  swiftly  from  one 
object  to  another,  seeking  something  to  rest  upon  which 
might  fix  his  hurrying  and  disordered  thoughts.  The 
notion  had  fully  possessed  him,  that  he  was  doomed 
to  live  w^ithout  sympathy  in  the  world,  that  the  power 
was  denied  him  to  reveal  to  another  what  was  in  his 
heart,  that  his  person,  his  manner,  and  all  which  made 
the  outward  man,  barred  him  from  a  return  of  love ; 
and  the  interest  he  thought  Esther  showed  in  him, 
while  it  came  like  an  unlooked-for  joy,  yet  brought 
with  it  doubt,  humiliation,  and  pain.  He  imagined 
what  he  must  seem  to  be  to  another,  and  then  distrust- 
ed the  plainness  and  steadiness  of  her  nature.  "  There 
is  not  enough  within  them  for  their  minds  to  dwell 
upon  ;  there  must  be  something  outward  and  near  to 
entertain  their  thoughts ;  and  their  fickleness  makes 
them  careless  how  poor  it  is,  so  it  will  but  serve  for 
the  time.  She  will  go  back  to  the  world,  and,  among 
showy   and  accomplished  men,  will  smile   secretly  at 


rU  I,    KKI.TOX.  281 

horsrll",  t(i  think  thai  siuli  a  one  as  i  am  ever  cjiiic-kriicd 
a  beat  of  her  heart. —  Yet  it  may  not  he  sti ;  souls  may 
hold  communion  hitldcn  and  mvstcrions  as  tlioir  na- 
turL's.  Can  looks  and  movements  and  voicr  like  hers, 
80  blended  in  harmony,  speak  anything  but  truth  ? 
Would  that  her  heart  lay  open  like  a  book  to  me,  that 
I  might  read  it  and  be  satisfied  I  " 

He  had  walked  on  tiirough  brake  and  over  crumbling 
moss,  and  was  climbing  up  the  shadowy  side  of  a  steep 
hill.  when,  reaching  its  brow,  the  sweej)  of  the  western 
sky  o|)ened  upon  him  in  full  splendoiir,  and  he  seemed 
.standing  on  the  verge  of  a  new  world,  a  world  of  light 
and  glory.  As  he  looked  forward,  all  that  lay  between 
liim  and  it  sunk  away;  he  felt  himself  expanding  with 
the  air,  and  becoming  as  it  were  one  of  the  sons  of 
light.  But  the  spirit  that  lifted  him  up  for  a  moment 
passed  like  a  bright  cloud  from  him;  a  weight  was  on 
his  soul  heavier  than  the  earth  with  all  its  hills  ;  and 
reality  breathed  upon  him  like  the  air  of  death.  As  he 
stood  on  the  bare  hill  alone,  and  saw  all  beneatii  him 
making  a  fair  society,  the  trees  in  brotherhood, — 
"  Must  I  only,"  he  cried,  "  of  all  the  works  of  God,  be 
an  outcast  ? "  He  looked  again  upon  the  sky ;  but 
the  quiet  clouds  .seemed  to  him  to  be  telling  of  joy  and 
peace  to  each  other.  He  stood  with  folded  arms, 
ira/ing  on  the  setting  sun.  He  spoke:  —  "  The  whole 
earth  mourns  thy  going,  thou  gladder  of  all  things. 
Tiiy  light  is  poured  out  over  it;  thou  touchest  the 
trees,  and  the  grass,  and  the  rocks,  and  they  each 
answer  thee;  thou  fillest  the  air,  and  sounds  are  heard 
in  it  as  if  corning  forth  from  thy  very  light  :  and  all 
mingle  in  thee  as  in  one  common  spirit  of  cheerfulness 
and  love.''  —  The  sun  was  now  gone.  He  sat  himself 
down  upon  a  st«tne,  till  the  visionary  twilight  and 
•^4  • 


282  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

shadows  were  lost  in  the  common  darkness.  There 
was  the  same  vagueness  of  purpose  in  his  mind  as 
when  he  left  home,  yet  there  was  less  tumult  of  the 
passions ;  and  gentler  feelings  had  entered  him.  As 
he  turned  to  go  homeward,  the  few  stars  that  were 
coming  out  in  the  east  cheered  his  spirit ;  hope  gushed 
up  in  his  heart  like  returning  life ;  the  aft'ections  were 
in  motion ;  and,  for  a  while,  the  sense  that  he  was  in 
fellowship  with  his  kind  thrilled  through  him  with 
rapture. 

Esther   was    at   the    door   when    Paul    returned.  — 
"  What,  alone  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,  you  have  all  deserted  me." 
"  And  can  you  feel  deserted,  Esther,  who  have  the 
company  of  happy  thoughts  ?  " 

"  All  thoughts,  that  we  do  not  share,  in  time  turn  to 
sadness." 

"  They  do  indeed,  or  to  something  worse  than  sad- 
ness ;    to  discontent,  —  almost  to  hate,  sometimes." 

"  That  is  a  fearful  sin,  in  the  solitude  of  our  souls  to 
grow  in  evil." 

"  It  makes  us  mad,  almost,"  said  he,  his  eyes  shoot- 
ing a  wild  light  on  her.  His  look  and  voice  made  her 
tremble. 

"  Mr.  Felton !  what  ails  you  ?  Can  a  heart  like 
yours  find  no  sympathy  in  all  this  world  ?  Is  there  no 
being  to  share  in  its  goodness  with  you,  and  give  it 
ease  ?  " 

"  And  with  whom  shall  I  find  rest?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing earnestly  on  her.  —  Her  eagerness  had  carried  her 
too  far;  she  blushed  deeply,  and  stood  silent  before 
him.  —  The  struggle  with  himself  was  a  severe  one  ; 
he  had  never  laid  open  one  deep  feeling,  and  how 
could  he  make  known  that  of  love  ?  At  last  he  said, 
after  ;i  pau^c,  — 


TATL    FELTON. 


283 


"  Though  of  nuiinu'is  niiwinuing  and  reserved,  and 
seemingly  cold  and  hard,  I  have  at  times  been  foolish 
enough  to  think  that  there  was  one  being  who  could 
read  something  of  my  soul,  and  love  me  for  what  she 
found  there.  Tell  me,  Esther,  have  I  been  mistaken  ? 
have  I  presumed  too  much  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  ask  me  so  doubtingly  to  reprove  me 
for  speaking,  as  I  did,  in  the  suddenness  of  my  feel- 
ings ?  You  cannot  think  that  it  was  designed  in  me  ? 
I  did  not  consider,  though  I  should  have  done  so,  that 
it  was  a  freedom  ill  suiting  me  ;  but  it  came  from  an 
earnest  heart,  Paul." 

"  Mv  words  were  not  those  of  reproof.  O  Esther, 
they  were  uttered  in  the  lowliness  of  a  soul,  which, 
though  too  often  restless  and  proud,  is  at  times  humble 
as  a  worm.  It  is  a  trial  of  my  faith  in  you  to  believe 
that  you  could  ever  love  me.  The  world  could  hardly 
have  persuaded  me  once,  that  a  creature  like  you,  made 
almost  to  be  worshipped  of  men,  could  ever  look  in 
fondness  on  one  like  me."  He  paused  for  a  moment; 
then  his  manner  changed  suddenly.  "  But,  so  much  as 
I  doubt  my  powers  to  touch  another's  heart,  so  much 
the  more,  so  much  the  more  must  I  have  assurance  of 
her  love." 

"  Why  so  wild,  Paul  ?  What  pledge  can  I  give  you 
that  I  would  not  give?" 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  the  pledge  must  not  only  be  a  sure 
one  :  it  must  be  of  a  love  which  shall  make  me  all  in 
all.  Can  you,"  he  cried,  seizing  her  hand  and  wring- 
ing it  hard,  "  can  you  have  me  in  all  your  thoughts, — 
make  your  whole  soul  mine?" 

She  shook,  and  turned  pale.  She  struggled  to  pass 
it  oil  lightly;  but  a  tirar  was  in  hir  eye,  as  she  said, 
with   a    forced   smile,  — "  Why,   Paul,  you   are  beside 


284  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

yourself!  Anybody  might  think  I  was  making  my- 
self over  to  the  Evil  One,  and  not  to  the  man  that 
loves  me." 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  Esther !  "  he  murmured, 
putting  his  arm  round  her,  and  resting  his  hot  brow  on 
her  shoulder.  "I,  —  I  feel  myself  sometimes  too  poor 
a  thing  for  mortal  regard  ;  and  then,  —  and  then  I  could 
crawl  into  the  earth.  O,  take  me  to  you,  and  cherisli 
me,  and  tell  me  that  I  am  not  wholly  worthless,  —  that 
you  will  love  me ! " 

"  Paul,  Paul,  this  is  madness.  You  have  brooded 
all  alone  over  your  melancholy  thoughts,  till  they  have 
bewildered  you.  If  you  care  for  me,  shall  I  not  make 
you  happy  ?  Look  up,  and  let  a  cheerful  spirit  enter 
you." 

He  lifted  his  head  slowly  from  her  shoulder,  and 
stood  gazing  on  her  beautiful,  tremulous  countenance. 
"  O,  you  are  an  angel  come  in  mercy  to  me  I  My 
spirit  will  never  suffer  so  more." 

"  This  is  too  eager,  Paul,"  said  she,  kindly.  "  Let 
your  spirit  have  rest,  and  try  to  be  of  a  calmer  mind." 
And  he  was  quiet.  The  tossing  of  the  soul  settled 
away,  and  he  stood  with  a  spirit  gentle  as  the  moon- 
light which  poured  over  them,  as  it  came  up  in  the 
east.  For  what  spirit  will  not  a  woman's  kindness 
calm? 

At  last  Esther's  father  came  to  take  her  home.  Paul 
was  urged  by  him  to  join  them  ;  but  a  certain  over-del- 
icacy, some  might  call  it,  prevented  his  going  for  the 
first  time  to  the  house  in  company  with  the  woman  to 
whom  he  had  been  but  a  little  while  engaged ;  and  so, 
with  an  embarrassed  and  half-uttered  apology,  he  said 
he  should  soon  follow  them. 

He  liad  time  for  onlv  a  word  or  two  at  her  leaving 


I' A 11.    KKLTDN.  '2S6 

him  :  and  \vl  he  lo(.)kcd  aiul  spoUr  as  it  ir  would  Take 
ages  to  pour  out  what  was  in  liini.  All  the  good  af- 
lectioiis  in  our  nature  seemetl  at  work  there.  It  was 
love  anil  pity,  an  almost  parental  care,  and  the  heart- 
siekness  of  parting.  As  he  i)nr  his  arm  gently  round 
her,  and  looked  in  her  face,  there  was  in  liis  maimer 
more  of  the  father,  who  is  about  parting  with  an  only 
daughter  for  the  lirst  time,  than  of  the  lover.  Ilis 
voice  was  low,  thrilling,  and  admonitory. 

"  You  are  going  from  me,  Esther,  for  tlu'  tiist  lime 
since  we  have  met.  A  single  and  near  object  moves 
oiur  atfections  strangely.  In  a  little  while  you  will  be 
among  those  with  whom  you  grew  up ;  and  old  sym- 
pathies of  thought  and  feeling  may  return  to  you. 
Look  carefully  into  your  heart,  Esther,  and  think  it 
your  best  faith  to  me  to  abide  by  what  that  tells  you." 

"  And  can  you  regard  and  love  mc,  Paul,  and  yet 
judge  me  of  so  light  and  changeable  a  disposition  ?" 

"  No,  Esther  ;  but  the  very  intcnseness  of  love  calls 
up  misgivings  ;  and  better  I  were  left  out  on  the  bleak 
heath  yonder,  than  be  gathered  to  your  bosom  to  be 
thrown  away  again." 

They  parted;  and  though  Esther  loved  him  with  a 
devoted  spirit,  she  breathed  more  freely  when  out  ol 
his  presence.  He  was  dearer  to  her  for  his  melancholy  ; 
and  his  kind  and  fond  manner,  when  his  abstraction  of 
mind  was  gone,  touched  her  heart.  Yet  there  was 
something  ominous  to  her  in  his  gloom;  and  though 
she  knew  it  had  been  caused  by  long  solitude  and  a 
mistaken  estimate  of  the  relation  in  which  he  might 
stand  to  others,  still  it  was  mysteriously  foreboding  to 
her,  and  there  was  an  indistinct  impression  on  the 
mind  that  some  dreadful  event,  comiected  with  it, 
awaited  1i»t. 


286  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

As  they  drove  from  the  door,  he  followed  with  his 
eyes  the  daintily  moving  steeds  and  gay  chariot,  till  a 
turn  in  the  road  shut  them  out  from  his  sight.  "  These 
things  belong  to  what  we  call  the  elegances  of  life," 
said  he  to  himself.  "  There  is  much  going  under  that 
term  which  serves  to  break  up  the  thoughtfulness  of 
the  mind,  and  what  is  native  and  sincere  in  the  heart." 
He  turned  away,  not  only  melancholy,  but  dissatisfied 
and  doubting.  And  now  that  he  was  alone  again,  and 
without  the  kind  persuasions  of  Esther,  his  old  depres- 
sion and  gloom  were  returning,  and  with  them  the  tor- 
tures that  doubting  minds  undergo  in  love.  Sometimes 
he  saw  her  before  him  with  the  distinctness  almost  of 
a  real  presence,  her  voice  and  countenance  beautifully 
touched  with  her  fondness  for  him ;  and  then  again  he 
remembered  her  cheerful,  social  spirit,  and  he  thought 
himself  driven  from  her  mind  by  those  who  were  stran- 
gers to  him.  A  thousand  times  a  day  he  would  ask 
himself,  "  Is  she  thinking  of  me  now  ?  or  is  she  busy 
amid  the  millions  of  things  which  waste  our  time,  and 
draw  to  them  our  wishes  and  hopes,  yet  have  nothing 
abiding  in  them  like  the  nature  of  our  souls  ?  " 

These  conjectures  and  sad  reflections  were  now  to 
give  way  to  feelings  immediate,  active,  and  intense ;  for 
Paul  set  off  from  home,  and  soon  reached  Mr.  War- 
ing's. 

Unless  a  man  has  met,  after  a  long  or  distant  sep- 
aration, the  woman  who  loves  him  with  all  her  heart, 
he  never  has  seen  the  soul  shine  out  in  the  countenance 
in  all  its  glow  and  beauty.  So  thovight  Paul  when 
they  met.  And  as  Esther  looked  on  him,  his  face,  too, 
was  changed  like  the  edge  of  a  cloud  by  the  shining 
of  the  sun  upon  it ;  and  she  felt  that  no  joy  is  like  her 
joy  who  reads  such  silent  tokens  of  love  returned,  heart 


PAUL    FELTON.  287 

answering  to  heart,  and  tliank:?  lor  tlie  deep  gladness 
slie  has  given. 

The  house  of  Estiiers  father,  whither  Paul  had  come, 
was  situated  but  a  few  miles  from  the  city,  in  a  pleas- 
ant village,  made  up  thielly  of  people  of  weahh  and 
fashion.  Thougii  Mr.  Waring's  fortune  was  not  so 
larije  as  many  of  his  neighbours',  as  he  had  no  child 
but  Esther  he  was  able  to  sratifv  his  fondness  for  com- 
pany  and  gay  life,  and  had  made  these  agreeable  to 
her  from  early  habit.  She  loved  society  the  better, 
also,  because  she  made  it  pleasant,  and  not  for  ttie 
reason  that  those  do  who  are  as  dull  company  to 
others  as  to  themselves. 

The  consequence  of  this  was,  that  Paul  and  she  had 
fewer  hours  together  than  when  at  his  father's.  He 
was  shy  of  being  near  her  in  company;  and  to  talk  be- 
fore strangers  with  the  woman  to  wliom  he  was  known 
to  be  engaged  would  have  been  martyrdom  to  him. 
He  had  found  that  her  countenance  brigiitened  and 
spirits  rose  high  in  society.  Her  gay  laugh  and  cheer- 
ful voice  were,  in  some  states  of  his  feelings,  like 
the  hissing  of  an  adder  in  his  ear.  He  was  pained  and 
made  uneasy,  because  he  saw  her  taken  up  with  that 
in  which  Ik-  felt  himself  unfitted  to  hold  a  part.  She 
was  giving  delight  and  receiving  it  in  return,  and  he 
could  not  share  in  it.  He  would  stand  aside  and  watch 
lier,  till  he  fancied  that  her  look  and  tone  of  voice  were 
the  same  with  which  she  looked  and  talked  with  liim. 

His  mind  was  in  a  peculiar  degree  single.  W'iiatever 
passion  or  thought  was  in  him,  it  filled  him  entirely; 
and  now  that  it  was  love,  all  in  the:  world  that  held 
not  connection  with  that  was  as  nothing  to  him.  He 
neither  heard,  nor  saw,  nor  felt  anything  that  concerned 
not  his  love  for  Esther.     The  alacrity  with  which  shr 


288  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

entered  into  whatever  was  going  on  was  to  him  a 
want  of  steadiness  of  mind  and  depth  of  feeling.  He 
understood  nothing  of  those  to  whom  the  passion  of 
love  gives  a  gay  spirit,  —  a  feeling  of  kindness  and 
fellowship  toward  all  the  world,  —  from  whom,  as  it 
grows  fuller  and  more  intense,  it  sends  forth  something 
of  its  bright  influence  over  all  around.  In  him  it  was 
a  self-absorbing  and  lonely  fire,  flaring  only  through 
the  recesses  of  his  own  soul,  and  shining  alone  upon 
his  own  solitary  thoughts. 

"  And  has  God  given  them  another  constitution  of 
mind,  also  ?  "  said  he  to  himself,  one  night,  as  he  left 
the  house,  too  restless  to  stay  any  longer.  "  Have  they 
no  fastnesses  nor  places  of  rest  to  come  home  to? 
Day  and  night  are  they  on  the  wing,  and  never  tire. 
The  bird  that  passed  over  me  just  now,  and  called  to 
me  out  of  the  darkness,  though  he  make  himself  com- 
panion of  the  stars  the  night  long,  will  go  to  his  nest 
by  morning.  I  would  not  be  a  thing  to  lay  my  heart 
open  to  the  common  eye.  Its  beatings  warm  me  the 
more,  to  think  that  I  can  be  in  the  midst  of  men  and 
they  not  count  its  pulses.  Rather  than  lie  out  for  ever 
sunning  in  the  day,  I  would  be  covered  up  in  my. 
grave."  Paul  could  not  accuse  Esther  to  himself,  with- 
out a  feeling  of  compunction.  This  did  not  drive 
away  his  doubts,  but  made  him  turn  some  of  the 
impatience  he  felt  upon  her.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  it, 
the  truth  of  her  character  would  break  out  upon  him 
in  its  fair  simplicity,  and  his  adoring  spirit  would  look 
up  to  her  as  something  set  apart  and  sacred. 

Her  spirits  were  in  full  flow  when  Paul  quitted  the 
house,  for  it  gave  animation  and  cheerfulness  to  her 
in  all  she  did  when  she  thought  him  near  her.  The 
conversation  began  to  flag ;  she  turned  to  look  for  him, 


PAUL    FELTON.  289 

but  he  was  gone.  Slio  romombored  tliat  a  feeling  like 
depression  had  been  gradually  gaining  on  her;  and  a 
superstitious  thought  crossed  her,  that  siie  had  been 
mysteriously  conscious  of  missing  something,  she  knew 
not  what,  though  she  had  not  before  perceived  that  he 
had  Iffr  the  room.  She  grew  silent;  the  company 
gradually  withdrew;  the  family  retired  to  rest,  and 
she  was  left  alone. 

It  was  midnight,  and  Paul  had  not  returned.  There 
was  no  sountl  in  the  house.  She  raised  the  window 
and  looked  out.  It  was  a  black,  misty  night,  and  there 
was  that  intense  stillness  abroad,  which,  at  such  a  time, 
is  felt  by  us  as  a  supernatural  presence,  and  makes  us 
think  of  death.  She  scarcely  breathed  as  she  listened 
for  his  footstep,  and  the  beatings  of  her  heart  struck 
audibly  upon  her  ear.  At  last  she  heard  him  as  he 
came  round  the  house,  and  the  blood  bounded  through 
her  frame.  "  Paul  I "  she  cried,  and  her  silver  voice 
rang  in  the  still  air.     Paul  entered. 

'•  Where  have  you  been,  you  runaway,"  said  she, 
springing  lightly  toward  him,  "to  give  mo  the  heart- 
ache for  two  long  hours,  —  and  all  in  the  chill  night- 
fog,  too?  See,"  said  she,  running  her  fingers  playfully 
through  his  straight,  black  hair,  on  which  the  dampness 
stood  ill  drops;  "these  pearls  shall  all  be  mine,  and 
make  me  a  hapi)y  girl  again." 

"  They  will  not  be  the  first  pearls  that  have  eased  a 
woman's  heart,  Esther. —  Com*',  come,  these  are  no 
brown  curls  to  ring  the  white  fingers  of  a  fair  hand." 

"  I  thought  to  cheer  you ;  I  am  sorry  it  olVends 
you." 

"Did  I  speak  harshly?  II'  I  did,  it  was  far  from 
what  1  feel." 

"Not  harshly,  but  mournfnlly,  and  as  if  1  had  given 

vol,.  I.  25 


290  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

you  cause  ;  and  to  think  so  is  harder  to  bear  than  what 
comes  from  an  over-hasty  temper." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  for  that  is  one  of  the 
many  tokens  whereby  we  find  out  love." 

"  And  are  you  in  search  of  mine  still  ?  I  had  thought 
it  had  been  yours  long  ago." 

"And  I  think  so  too,  Esther;  but  then  it  can  rest 
only  on  our  belief;  and  upon  that  there  will  always  be 
hanging  some  ugly  shred  of  doubt." 

"  O,  I  had  believed  it  was  a  faith,  — not  to  speak  pro- 
fanely, —  a  faith  that  surpasseth  knowledge,  —  that  it 
was  in  us  as  om*  consciousness,  our  very  life.  Is  it 
folly  in  me  to  think  so  ?  " 

"  No,  Esther,  it  is  your  virtue.  Bad  as  I  am,  I 
have  moments  of  such  blessedness.  And  this,  this  is 
one  of  them.  It  is  on  me  now  I  "  he  cried,  in  a  broken 
laugh.  She  started  from  him  as  from  a  deranged  man. 
—  "Be  not  alarmed,"  said  he,  seizing  her  arm,  and 
looking  on  her  eagerly,  "  I  am  not  mad,  not  quite  mad, 
though  joy  shoots  through  me  sometimes  like  fire." 

"  I  wish  it  might  burn  in  you  gently  and  constantly, 
Paul,  for  then  I  should  see  you  a  happy  man ;  and  I 
would  die  to-night,  and  e'en  forego  all  my  love  for 
you,  —  if  love  must  die  with  us,  —  could  I  but  leave 
you  happy."  She  covered  her  face,  and  sobbed  as  if 
comfort  had  forsaken  her. 

"  O  Esther,  I  am  not  worthy  this ;  I  'm  so  poor 
a  thing,  I  ought  not  to  make  you  unhappy  even. 
That  was  an  evil  time  in  which  you  saw  me  first. 
When  I  was  alone,  I  went  about  the  earth  as  a 
doomed  creature ;  and  now  that  I  am  connected  with 
my  kind,  the  curse  that  was  on  me  singly  seems  to 
be  stretching  out  over  all  in  communion  with  me. 
When   I   see  you   happy,  my  heart  aches  for  you,  to 


PAUL  FELTON.  291 

think  how  heedless  you  are  of  the  liour  tliat  is  await- 
ing you." 

"  Aiid  wliat  liour  have  I  to  fear,  Paul,  but  the  hour 
of  death,  which  i:^  to  part  us?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell :  only  1  have  lived  impressed  from  the 
time  I  was  a  boy,  that  it  was  writ  I  should  be  miser- 
able. And  when  I  see  you  happy,  you  look  to  me  like 
a  star  trailing  your  glory  across  my  gloom,  only  to  fall 
and  go  out  in  it.  Better,  I  fear,  that  I  should  liavi' 
lived  on  in  darkness,  than  that  your  light  sliould  ever 
have  shone  on  me. —  O,  I  talk!  No  more  of  tliis  now; 
the  morning  will  overtake  us.  You  look  pale  and 
heart-sunken.  Let  me  not  make  your  hour  of  rest 
miserable,  Estlu-r.  Think  this,  as  I  hope  it  is,  but  the 
boding  of  midnight.  To-morrow  I  '11  be  as  cheerful  as 
the  lightest  of  them.  Sweet  sleep  comfort  you!  And 
now,  my  love,  good  night."  —  Esther  looked  at  him, 
melancholy,  yet  something  cheered,  but  she  could  not 
^pcak  as  they  parted. 

For  several  days  Paul's  afl'eetionatc  manner  was 
not  broken  by  any  sudden  starts,  or  gloomy  reserve ; 
and  if  after  a  time  these  returned  upon  him,  it  was 
seldomer ;  and  his  disposition  seemed  softened  and 
quieted.  The  day  was  coming  that  Esther  was  to 
be  his  wife ;  and  as  it  drew  near,  he  felt  more  surely 
how  deeply  rooted  she  was  in  liis  heart. 

'J'here  are,  at  times,  a  tenderness  and  a  delicacy 
about  a  serious  man,  the  beauty  of  which  aflects  us 
eveji  more  than  when  we  .'«ee  them  in  a  woman.  'I'his 
i.**  partly  from  contrast.  They  are  in  agreement  wilh 
a  woman's  person  and  general  character,  and  are  habit- 
ual to  her.  Ii  may  be  that  wIhii  the  man  is  under  their 
inllnenees  he  has  a  more  ex(|nisite  sense  of  them, — 
may  we  say,  a  liner  touch  lor  them  ? 


292  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Though  Paul  showed  the  greatest  fondness  for 
Esther,  except  at  moments  when  haunted  by  some 
fearful  passion  or  thought,  there  was  now  so  kind  a 
regard,  so  delicate  a  propriety  of  the  affections,  in  his 
manner  toward  her,  that  she  almost  thought  some  new 
and  higher  sense  of  his  love  had  been  given  her;  it 
moved  her  to  tears.  Paul  was  happy  that  it  did ;  it 
made  her  the  nearer  to  him.  He  knew  that  the  tender 
affections  have  more  or  less  of  melancholy  in  them, 
and  that  his  own  were  tinged  by  it. 
^  "  Let  me  fasten  on  these  bracelets,"  said  he,  taking 
out  a  pair  he  had  just  purchased ;  "  for  there  is  a  charm 
in  their  circles  to  bind  you  to  me." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Paul ;  no  manacles,  though  to  bind  me 
to  you  even,"  she  said,  unclasping  one  of  them,  and 
twirling  it  round  her  finger.  — "  Don't  look  so  serious 
about  it. —  There,  clasp  it  again,  and  you  shall  be  the 
first  to  take  it  off,  though  thou  wouldst  have  me  spell- 
bound, thou  wizard  man.  I  wish  it  had  been  some- 
thing else,  though." 

"  And  what  would  you  have  had  it,  Esther." 

"  This,"  said  she,  passing  her  hand  playfully  over  his 
face. 

"What,  a  face  like  mine,  and  '  in  little,'  and  set 
round  with  gold  and  diamonds!  And  where  would 
you  have  worn  it  ?  —  Why,  it  would  have  made  your 
heart  beat  with  fear  to  have  such  a  looking  thing  so 
near  it.  And  to  have  made  love  to  it,"  he  said,  half 
smiling,  "  that 's  past  all  faith ! " 

"  Then  there  is  no  truth  in  my  love,  Paul." 

"  Yes,  but  there  is ;  it  is  all  truth.  And  yet,"  he 
added,  as  if  pondering  upon  it,  "  it  is  very  strange." 

"  What  is  strange  ?  " 

"  That  Esther  should  ever  look  on  me,  and,  after, 


PAUL    FELTOX.  293 

love   mc.     And  yet   you  will    vow   it   to-morrow,   will 
you  not  ?  " 

'•  It"  you  question  it  so,  it  may  be  better  for  us  both 
that  I  should  not.  For  when  I  have  done  it,  should 
Paul  doubt,  he  had  better  be  in  his  grave  than  live." 

"  Nor  should  I  deserve  to  see  the  light,  nor  feel 
this  blessed  sun,  I  was  moody,  Esther.  Do  not  lay 
to  heart  what  I  say  at  such  times.  My  joy  was  too 
much  for  me,  and  made  me  play  with  son-ow.  Didst 
never  in  grief  have  a  wild  and  horrid  mirth  fork  like 
lightning  by  you  ?  I  have,  that  my  eyes  have  blenched 
at  it.  I  shall  be  used  to  this  joy  soon ;  and  then  my 
spirit  will  be  as  quiet  before  you  as  that  cloud  resting 
above  us  in  the  light  yonder.  O,  you  shall  be  my  sun 
and  all  else  that  is  good  and  cheering  to  me ;  and  when 
I  hold  you  to  me  thus,  to-morrow,  I  '11  not  call  you 
Esther,  but  my  wife." 

The  next  day  they  were  married,  and  Paul  took 
EsTJier  to  their  new  home,  not  quite  a  mile  from  the 
village.  The  house  was  plain,  but  well  proportioned, 
set  down  in  the  middle  of  a  level  grass-plot,  which  was 
broken  only  by  the  gravel-way  winding  up  to  the  door, 
and  by  a  clumj)  of  young  trees  a  little  on  one  side. 
The  whole  was  open  to  the  sun,  and  about  it  was  an 
air  of  simj)licity  and  quiet.  All  along  the  even  road  to 
the  village  lay  a  beautiful  prospect,  and  there  was  a 
row  of  elms  and  sycamores,  stretching  the  length  of 
the  route  ;  so  that,  though  they  had  l)ut  one  near  neigji- 
bour,  .Mr.  Ridgley,  they  had  quite  as  much  company 
a.s  if  in  the  midst  of  the  village. 

Their  hou.se  terminated  these  pleasant  views ;  lor 
a  littl<!  back  of  it  ran  a  ridge  of  steep  rocks,  and  be- 
yond that  the  cotmtry  was  desolate,  stretching  out  into 
wide  sand  tracts  broken   by  |)atilies  of  scant,  yellowish 


294  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

grass  ;  and  half  round  the  whole  swept  a  forest  of  low, 
ragged  pines.  The  place  was  difficult  of  access,  and 
appeared  like  a  land  accursed ;  neither  the  foot-print  of 
man  nor  beast  was  to  be  seen  there.  It  was  one  of 
those  good-for-nothing  tracts  of  country  which  are  sure 
to  lead  their  proprietors  into  lawsuits.  A  farmer  in 
the  neighbourhood  had  put  a  couple  of  men  on  it  to 
cut  down  the  wood ;  and  this  business  he  carried  on 
for  some  time,  till,  falling  into  a  dispute  with  a  neigh- 
bouring farmer,  notice  of  the  trespass  reached  the  own- 
er, who  w^ovild  not  have  remembered  that  the  estate 
was  his,  had  it  not  been  for  his  tax-bills.  A  suit  was 
instituted,  the  farmer  at  last  driven  off  from  what  was 
not  worth  having,  and  the  true  proprietor  ruined.  A 
story  was  current  thereabouts,  that  the  land  was  good 
enough  before  the  owner  gained  his  cause,  but  that  he 
was  a  hard  man,  that  the  devil  had  a  hand  in  the 
suit,  helped  him  to  gain  it,  and  then  danced  over  the 
land,  where  now  lay  the  sand,  and  singed  the  grass  as 
he  went  off  in  fire  and  smoke.  The  men  said  they  did 
not  know  why  they  should  go  where  there  was  nothing 
to  be  got ;  and  a  foolhardy  boy,  who  had  once  been  a 
bird-nesting  there,  was  ever  afterwards  looked  on  with 
suspicion,  as,  in  some  way  or  other,  belonging  to  the 
Evil  One. 

When  Paul  now  looked  back,  and  remembered 
that  till  a  little  while  before  the  world  had  been  bare  of 
joy  to  him,  that  the  soul,  living  w^ithout  sympathy,  had 
been  at  prey  upon  itself,  and  that  a  solitude,  more 
dreadful  than  if  he  had  stood  the  only  living  thing 
upon  the  earth,  had  svirrounded  him, — the  solitude  and 
void  which  estrangement  from  others  makes  about  us, 
—  it  was  as  if  he  had  passed  into  another  state  of  be- 
ing ;  and  a  new  nature  and  new  delights  filled  him  with 


PAUL  FELTON.  295 

sensations  of  which  before  he  had  no  thought.  He 
looked  upon  Esther,  and  his  mind  was  one  rapture. 
Neglected  and  passed  by  as  he  luui  been,  she  had  stop- 
ped, and  spoken  comfort  to  him,  and  taken  him  by  the 
hand ;  and  he  had  followed  her  like  a  child.  "  Thou 
hast  been  my  good  angel  to  me,  Esther,"  he  said  in 
thought,  "  and  brought  me  out  of  darkness  into  the 
comfortable  light.  The  spring  of  my  feelings  was 
sealed  up,  but  you  have  opened  it,  and  it  runs  on  now, 
taking  the  hues  and  forms  of  all  the  beautiful  and 
blessed  thinjis  with  which  God  has  filled  this  earth  for 
us.  My  heart  is  fuller  of  joy  than  I  well  know  how  to 
bear,  —  it  aches  to  sj)eak  it  to  you ;  and  yet  its  throb- 
bings  can  tell  you  better  than  words  can." 

Tliis  was  the  over-contentment  of  a  mind  melan- 
choly by  nature,  and  not  knowing  how  to  measure  its 
joys  when  they  came.  The  happiness  of  such  minds 
is  always  in  excess  ;  then  it  seems  strange  to  them ; 
they  question  its  truth ;  it  does  not  l)elong  to  them  ; 
they  fear  it  cannot  last;  they  look  l)ack  upon  their  mel- 
ancholy as  their  true  condition,  as  one  which  they  are 
bound  to  by  some  fatality ;  and  'u\  their  hopelessness 
ihey  rush  into  it  farther  than  before. 

Paul's  state  was  so  opposite  to  what  he  had  been 
wonted  to,  that  it  seemed  to  produce  some  indistinct- 
ness of  the  thoughts  and  senses,  and  he  could  hardly 
have  a  clear  persuasion  of  the  reality  of  his  happiness. 
It  partook  of  the  visionary ;  and  he  began  to  fear  that 
his  hopes  and  imagination  liad  cheated  him  into  it. 
In  his  saner  moments,  when  he  could  not  (piestion  its 
truth,  he  doubted  its  stability;  and  a  vague  notion  Ihat 
this  was  to  pass  away,  and  something,  he  knew  nt)t 
what,  to  take  its  placi-,  unsi'tiled  the  (piiet  of  his  mind 
and  disturbed    ii.->   full   CAjnU'i\\.      \   feeling,  lik«'  those 


296  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

ill  forebodings  which  sometimes  come  over  us  and  then 
go  off  again,  was  more  and  more  gaining  possession  of 
him,  bringing  back  his  old  melancholy,  troubling  his 
reason,  and  distorting  what  he  saw. 

There  is  an  infatuation  in  gloomy  minds,  which 
makes  whatever  they  are  concerned  in  minister  to  their 
melancholy ;  and  they  seek  out  causes  of  depression 
with  an  industry  more  eagei'  and  unrelaxed  than  that 
with  which  cheerful  souls  hunt  after  pleasure.  It  is 
the  craving  of  a  diseased  appetite,  never  sated. 

Paul  felt  his  melancholy  returning  at  intervals.  At 
first,  he  shrunk  from  it  with  the  di-ead  that  the  lunatic 
flies  his  fits  of  coming  madness ;  but  at  last,  as  dark 
thoughts  began  to  gather  round  him,  he  no  longer  tried 
to  scatter  them  ;  the  fate  that  he  imagined  himself  born 
to,  and  his  former  distrust  of  himself,  were  oftener  in 
his  mind  ;  and  with  these  came  his  doubts  of  others.  — 
"  It  cannot  be  that  I  was  made  to  be  loved  of  one  so 
beautiful  a:nd  of  so  light  a  heart.  The  gloom  that  shad- 
owed me  about  ^vas  a  mystery  to  her,  and  she  was 
curious  to  know  it.  She  saw  that  I  was  depressed  and 
miserable,  and  that  moved  her  heart  to  pity  me ;  she 
found  that  her  kindness  touched  me  and  made  me  hap- 
py, and  this  stirred  an  innocent  pride  within  her,  and 
she  mistook  it  all  for  love.  And,  fool  !  fool !  so  did  I. 
Ay,  and  there  was  no  one  near  to  place  this  uncomely 
form  by ;  and  no  gay,  accomplished,  and  ready  mind  to 
play  round  the  sluggish,  unchanging  movements  of 
mine.  Poor  girl,  she  knew  not  me,  nor  herself,  then  ; 
but  the  knowledge  will  one  day  be  revealed  to  her,  and 
with  a  curse  as  heavy  as  fell  on  man  in  paradise." 

Though  Paul  passed  many  such  hours  when  alone, 
and  was  restless  and  impatient  in  company,  yet  the 
thought  that  Esther  was  his  wife  was  still  a  healing  to 


Paul  felton.  297 

his  heart.  He  loved  her  with  all  that  intenseness  his 
nature  was  formed  to  feel ;  and  it  was  with  a  joyous 
adoration  that  he  looked  on  her  in  his  undisturbed  mo- 
ments. He  could  yet  feel  the  reality  of  her  fondness 
for  liim ;  and  he  thought  of  it  as  more  than  an  earthly 
blessing. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Frank  Ridgley  returned 
home,  after  an  absence  of  two  or  three  years.  He  had 
been  an  early  and  ardent  lover  of  Esther.  She  had  a 
great  regard  and  liking  for  Frank,  but  not  a  particle  of 
love  for  him.  His  case  was  a  more  hopeless  one  than 
if  he  had  been  her  aversion  ;  for  opposite  passions  run 
so  into  each  other,  particularly  in  women,  that  it  is 
oftentimes  hard  to  tell  which  is  which.  Perhaps  Frank 
felt  the  truth  of  this  (though  he  was  not  much  in  the 
way  of  philosophizing)  when  Esther  refused  him,  tell- 
ing him,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  had  a  great  esteem 
for  him.  For  the  matter  of  that,  thought  he,  though 
he  dared  not  say  it,  you  might  profess  as  much  to  my 
grandmother.  He  was  angiy  and  mortified,  and  in  de- 
spair ;  and  confounded,  and  not  knowing  what  feeling 
he  was  suflering  under,  swore  most  solemnly  that  he 
would  never  survive  his  disappointment.  —  "  That's  an 
unwise  resolution  in  you,  Frank,"  said  Esther.  "  Only 
allow  yourself  time  to  think  about  it  till  you  are  a  little 
older,  and  you  will  live  to  see  the  folly  of  it.  —  Forgive 
me,  Frank ;  I  do  not  mean  to  make  sport  of  your  feel- 
ings ;  but,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  camiot  help  thinking  how 
bright  and  well  you  will  look  a  twelvemonth  hence." 

The  truth  is,  Frank  was  oik;  of  those  wiiose  feelings 
spend  thi'insclves  on  th<;  outer  man,  and  whose  pas- 
Hi(jns,  violently  as  Ihey  srvm  agitateti,  an;  but  healthful 
excit(Mnent,  comjiared  with  what  those  feel  who  look 
clayey  and  hard  when  they  are  most  moved.     Esther 


298  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

knew  very  well  that  he  was  sincerely  and  warmly  at- 
tached to  her  at  the  time,  and  that,  would  she  consent 
to  have  him,  he  would  make  a  fond  husband,  and  wear 
black  for  her  a  full  year  after  she  was  gone  ;  but  that 
his  mind  was  not  one  of  those  abiding-places  in  which 
we  find  decayed,  gray  trees,  and  young  shoots,  running 
v'ines,  and  mosses,  and  all  those  close  and  binding 
growths  which  look  so  lasting,  faithful,  and  affectionate. 
She  pitied  him  as  we  do  one  who  has  a  twinge  of  the 
toothache,  —  which  nobody  dies  of.  However  bent  we 
may  be  upon  dying  of  crossed  love,  it  is  no  easy  mat- 
ter ;  next  to  starving  one's  self  to  death,  there  is  nothing 
which  requires  more  resolution  and  perseverance.  Ac- 
cordingly, Frank  returned  in  due  time,  glad  to  see  his 
friends,  with  his  head  full  of  novelties,  with  much  use- 
ful information,  and  a  lively  way  of  showing  it. 

It  was  a  damp,  uncomfortable  evening,  and  Paul 
and  Esther  were  round  the  fire ;  Paul  a  little  on  one 
side,  and  partly  in  the  shade,  now  and  then  making 
some  short,  serious  remark,  after  his  usual  manner,  with 
his  eyes  resting  on  Esther's  countenance,  as  she  sat 
looking  into  the  fire,  pondering  on  what  he  said  and 
the  many  things  it  led  the  inind  to.  Her  face  was 
thoughtful,  and  her  features  had  a  beautiful  distinct- 
ness, as  they  appeared  in  strong  outline  against  the 
warm  fire-light  that  shone  on  her.  At  no  time  had  love 
seemed  to  Paul  so  quiet  and  domestic.  He  thought 
that  he  had  never  before  been  conscious  how  lovely  and 
dear  to  us  humanity  may  be. 

There  was  a  smart  rap  at  the  door,  and  in  came,  in 
full  spirits,  Frank  Ridgley.  Esther,  who  was  surprised 
and  sincerely  glad  to  see  him,  showed  it  in  her  benevo- 
lent countenance.  His  manner  was  a  little  embarrass- 
ed ;  for  he  had  not  forgotten  that  he  had  once  been  in 


PAUL    FELTON.  299 

love,  though  now  cured  of  it ;  and  remembering  Es- 
ther's prophecy,  he  coloured,  and  looked  not  a  little 
ashamed  to  think  that  she  should  see  him  alive  and 
well  again.  Paul  felt  something  like  uneasiness  at  the 
expression  of  Esther's  face,  and  an  impatient  doubt 
passed  through  his  mind  as  he  observed  Frank's  embar- 
rassed manner.  It  was  that  old  distrust  of  himself  and 
of  his  power  to  interest  another  deeply,  making  him 
question  the  possibility  of  a  sincere  and  enduring  pas- 
sion for  him,  wiiich  haunted  him,  rather  than  a  prone- 
ness  to  tliink  lightly  of  another's  virtue.  Frank  was  a 
man  much  below  Paul  in  tbrce  of  character,  and  feel- 
ing, and  inTellectual  power;  yet  he  was  his  very  oppo- 
site in  mind  and  person ;  and  this  left  Paul  room  to 
harass  himself  with  surmises,  and  torture  himself  wdth 
the  pain  with  which  humbling  thoughts  afflict  proud 
men. 

"  Mr.  Felton,"  said  Esther,  a  little  agitated  at  intro- 
ducing her  husband  to  an  old  friend,  "  this  is  an  old  ac- 
quaintance of  mine,  Mr.  Ridgley."  His  eye  fastened 
on  Esther,  as  if  he  was  reading  her  very  soul.  He  saw 
her  agitation,  but  mistook  the  cause.  He  rose  slowly 
from  his  chair,  out  of  the  dark  corner  in  which  he  was 
'fitting,  and  giving  his  hand  deliberately  to  Frank,  and 
ooking  downward,  said  gravely,  "  Sir,  I  am  happy  to 
see  you." —  As  the  light  struck  upon  his  figure,  and  he 
took  Frank's  hand,  Frank  shrunk  back  a  little,  as  if  not 
altogether  safe.  The  deep  and  scarcely  audible  voice 
in  which  he  sj)oke,  his  dark  countenance,  and  low,  mus- 
cular luriii,  seemed  j)ossessed  of  some  strange  power. 
Frank  involuntarily  turned  toward  Esther,  as  if  in  won- 
der that  anything  so  gentle,  and  fair,  and  cheerful  as 
she  could  belong  to  sn<h  a  being,  l^'sther  trembled  as 
she   ohscrvcfl    Paul,  though   she   hardly  knew  why,  and 


300 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


seeing  Frank  looking  at  her,  blushed  deeply,  for  she 
knew  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  Paul  glanced  his 
eye  swiftly  over  both  of  them,  and,  bowing,  drew  back 
into  his  seat. 

The  room  was  lighted,  and  Frank,  who  was  of  too 
cheerful  a  disposition  to  be  made  long  uneasy  by  un- 
pleasant thoughts,  began,  in  full  spirits,  to  talk  about 
old  times,  and  what  he  had  seen  since  leaving  home. 
His  gayety  was  not  of  that  sort  which  we  sit  and  look 
at  with  a  good-natured  acquiescence,  and  are  pleased 
to  see  so  well  played  off;  but  it  was  communicative, 
driving  away  our  troubles,  and  making  us  feel,  for  the 
time,  as  if  we  ourselves,  too,  were  of  the  same  happy 
temperament.  He  was  a  man  of  good  sense,  also,  and 
of  right  honest  and  kind  feelings,  and  therefore  much 
better  fitted  for  the  true  purposes  of  travel  than  those 
who  go  equipped  with  everything  that  can  be  thought 
of,  except  straight  heads  and  honest  hearts.  His  gayety 
and  humour  were  mingled  with  just  observations,  and 
softened  down  by  the  propriety  and  delicacy  natural  to 
his  character;  and  these,  with  a  graceful  and  elegant 
person  and  handsome  countenance,  and  a  certain  def- 
erence of  manner,  made  him  a  favourite  wherever  he 
went,  particularly  among  the  women. 

Notwithstanding  the  effect  Paul's  appearance  had  on 
him,  he  knew  Esther  too  well  to  think  that  any  atten- 
tion he  might  pay  her  would  reconcile  her  to  a  neglect 
of  her  husband.  This  might  be  one  of  her  singulari- 
ties ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  disregarded.  Besides,  how- 
ever reserved  and  silent  Paul  might  be,  no  one  could 
sit  near  him  and  forget  who  was  by  his  side.  Though 
Paul  was  distant  and  cold  at  first,  the  ease  and  pro- 
priety of  Frank's  remarks  were  not  unobserved  by  him, 
and  he  was  gradually  led  to  take  part  in  the  con  versa- 


rxri,   FKi/rox.  301 

tion.  When  ho  did,  Frank  no  longer  wondered  at  his 
power  over  Er^ther ;  though,  at  the  same  time,  (he  knew 
not  why,)  he  was  conscious  of  something  like  uneasi- 
ness and  distrust  on  iier  account.  Yet,  on  the  whole, 
the  evening  passed  off  very  well ;  and  Esther's  heart 
was  lightened  to  think  it  had  ended  so  much  better 
than  it  began. 

When  Frank  withdrew,  Paul  became  silent.  "  It  is 
not  yet  quite  two  years  since  she  first  saw  me,"  said  he 
to  himself;  "  and  who  can  tell  how  many  times  since 
she  was  a  child,  to  that  hour,  she  has  sighed  as  she 
thought  on  some  other  man  ?  "  He  stirred  in  his  chair. 
Esther  looked  at  him  ;  but  he  was  buried  in  thought. 
"  And  is  it  mere  chance  that  has  fixed  her  love  at  last 
on  me  ?  Have  the  same  hopes  and  same  desires  which 
rest  on  me  been  breathed  forth  in  silence  for  another 
when  I  was  unknown?  And  had  she  never  seen  me, 
might  she  not  have  looked  as  fondly  on  some  other  man, 
and  hung  on  him  as  she  will  now  on  me?"  It  was 
hateful  to  him  to  think  on  it.  There  is  no  man  of  sen- 
timent who  would  not  gladly  be  rid  of  such  thoughts 
if  he  could  ;  he  practises  upon  himself  to  believe  it 
was  not  so,  and  though  half  conscious  of  the  self-de- 
ception, yet  even  from  tjiat  little  gathers  some  relief. 
But  Paul  was  made  for  seli-torture  ;  besides,  he  had 
lived  a  lonely  man  so  long,  that  what  he  felt  was  not 
to  be  so  shuffled  oil.  lie  considered  with  himself,  and 
considered  truly,  that  there  is  not  one  woman  in  a 
thousand  who  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  imagined 
herself  in  love  with  another  man  than  him  she  at  last 
marries.     It  made  hiiri  writhe  with  impatience. 

At  last  Esther  said  aloud,  but  without  raising  her 
eves  from  a  print  of  Mordand's  on  which  she  was 
looking,  '•  lit;  is  certainly  very  a^lial)l^^" 

vol..  I.  2('} 


302 


THE   IDLE    MAN. 


"  Do  you  mean  that  swine-feeder  ?  "  asked  Paul,  sar- 
castically, as  he  looked  up. 

"  I  was  not  then  thinking  of  him  or  his  pigs,"  she 
replied,  smiling. 

"  You  should  be  more  definite,  then,  my  dear. 
You  forget  that  every  one's  thoughts  do  not  take  the 
same  road  with  yours.  Yes,  he  is  one  of  the  hand- 
somest men  I  have  met  with,  and  of  a  very  winning 
address." 

"  Handsoiue,  did  I  sav  ?  " 

"  I  know  not  that  you  did ;  yet  you  think  him  so, 
surely,  —  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do ;  but  I  was  speaking  of  his  heart." 

"  O,  of  his  heart.     Of  that  you  know  more  than  I." 

"  And  well  I  may,  Paul,  for  I  have  known  Frank 
Ridgley  from  a  boy." 

"  Very  like,"  said  Paul ;  then  spoke  of  the  weather 
and  soon  left  the  room. 

He  at  this  time  believed  Esther  to  be  of  a  mind  as 
open  as  the  day,  yet  because  his  own  person  and  bear- 
ing had  nothing  graceful  or  attractive  in  it,  he  made 
these  properties  of  too  much  importance,  forgetting 
how  much  less  women  regard  such  things  in  us,  than 
we  do  in  them.  He  remembered  Frank's  appearance  ; 
and  the  suspicion  took  possession  of  him,  that  there 
must  have  been  a  time  when  he  had  place  in  her 
youthful  imagination.  This  was  a  poisonous  thought 
to  take  root  in  a  mind  like  his. 

The  next  day,  as  he  was  returning  home  from  a 
morning  walk,  he  saw  at  a  distance  Frank  leaving  the 
house.  "  I  thought  as  much,  —  a  lady's  man,  who 
plays  his  glove  and  shows  a  white  hand.  We  value 
ourselves,  and  are  valued,  on  the  turn  of  a  finger-nail ; 
and,  what  is  worse,  our  sober,  retired  thoughts  are  put 


PAUL    FELTON.  303 

out  o'  doors,  and  our  minds  fitted  up  for  sliows  and 
gala-dai/sP 

Frank  soon  came  along,  looking  fresh  as  the  morn- 
ing, and,  as  he  passed  Paul,  wished  him  gayly  a  pleas- 
ant day.  Paul  bowed  his  head  slowly,  and  walked  on 
homeward. 

"  And  what  have  you  there?"  asked  Esther,  going 
toward  him  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  Constancy,  Esther,  constancy." 

"  Give  it  me,  then,"  said  she,  catching  it  out  of  his 
hand.  "  Yet  I  '11  not  take  it  all.  There,  it  shall  be 
between  us.  Stay,  let  me  have  it  again,  and  I  '11  })lant 
it  under  this  window,  that  it  may  grow  all  together. 
And  I  '11  water  it  daily." 

"  Look  well  to  it,  lest  a  blight  take  it." 

"  It  is  not  so  tender  that  it  need  watching  so, 
surely  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  is,  Esther,  —  it  is  often  blasted." 

"  I  read  not  so  of  it." 

"  Then  your  books  are  a  lie ;  do  not  trust  them." 

"  I  will  not,  or  myself  either.  It  is  yours  again  ;  and 
you  shall  tend  it.  I  am  too  heedless  and  gay  for  such 
continual  care.  Come,  lay  by  that  sombre  counte- 
nance, and  fit  you  with  a  more  cheerful  look,  for  we 
are  to  have  a  splendid  ball  at  the  village.  Frank  has 
been  here,  and  spoiled  my  morning  with  talk  of  figures 
and  dresses.  And  I  know  not  but  that  you  would  have 
found  m<»  in  lull  practice,  had  I  not  protested  against 
dancing  at  high  noon. —  Now,  take  me  not  in  earnest, 
Paul." 

'•  Would  1lial  1  could  tell  when  I  might,  Esther. 
My  heart  is  ill  at  ease,  and  1  eaniiol  triOe  now." 

"And  is  it  I  who  have  broken  its  j)eace?"  asked 
she,  as  she  leaned  fondly  on  iiim.     "  It  was  my  liope. 


304  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  all  which  made  me  happy,  that  I  should  be  its  rest 
and  joy.  I  seem  to  you  too  much  a  trifler  for  your 
graver  nature.  I,  too,  was  graver  than  now,  before  I 
knew  you,  Paul.  It  is  the  over-joy  that  you  have  filled 
my  heart  with  which  makes  me  so  prattling  and  wild, 
like  a  child.  It  is  that  I  feel  too  much,  and  not  too 
little.  Yet  sometimes  it  makes  me  thoughtful,  nearly 
to  melancholy,  instead  of  gay.  I  wish  it  always  did, 
for  then  I  should  be  like  you,  and  content  you  better. 
And  you  would  never  then  cast  on  me  that  look  of 
soiTow  and  reproof  which  you  did  just  now,  would  you, 
Paul  ?  "     The  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  Be  like  me,  Esther !  You  little  know  what  you 
are  wishing  for.  Be  like  yourself,"  said  he,  laying  his 
hand  on  her  open  brow ;  "  be  good  and  be  happy.  Mis- 
ery is  but  another  name  for  sin,  for  imperfect  virtue. 
Could  we  cast  off  our  frailties,  man  might  walk 
through  the  afflictions,  the  losses,  and  wrongs  of  life 
with  the  calm  of  heaven  within  him,  and  its  glory 
round  about  him.  I  have  had  visions  of  it;  and  they 
have  changed  this  vile  thing  you  lean  on  to  the  bright 
soul  and  shape  of  angels." 

She  gazed  on  him  without  breathing.  His  face  was 
turned  upward,  and  he  seemed  as  if  seeing  into  the 
world  above  him.  His  look  was  fixed  and  calm  as  the 
sky.  He  stood  for  a  time  as  if  rapt  in  holy  converse. 
By  and  by  a  cloud  passed,  his  countenance  became 
dark,  and  his  liead  sunk  on  his  bosom.  Esther  could 
look  no  longer.  Paul  seemed  sinking  beneath  her 
weight.  She  raised  herself,  and  he  turned,  and  walked 
slowly  out  of  the  room.  She  would  have  followed 
him,  but  she  could  not  move. 

He  took  a  path  which  led  through  the  fields  back  of 
the  house,  and  wound  among  the  steep  rocks  part  way 


PAUL  FELTOX.  305 

up  the  range  of  high  hill^,  till  it  reached  a  i^mall  locust- 
grove,  where  it  ended.  He  began  climbing  a  ridge 
near  him,  and,  reaching  the  top  of  it,  beheld  all  around 
him  a  scene  desolate  and  broken  as  the  ocean.  It 
looked,  for  miles,  as  if  one  immense  gray  rock  had  been 
heaved  up  and  shattered  by  an  earthquake.  Here  and 
there  might  be  seen  shooting  out  of  the  clefts  old  trees, 
like  masts  at  sea.  It  was  as  if  the  sea  in  a  storm  had 
become  suddenly  fixed,  w4th  all  its  ships  upon  it.  The 
sun  shone  glaring  and  hot  on  it,  but  there  was  neither 
life,  nor  motion,  nor  sound.  The  spirit  of  Desolation 
had  gone  over  it,  and  it  had  become  the  place  of  death. 
His  heart  sank  within  him  and  something  like  a  super- 
stitious dread  entered  him.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself 
and  look  about  with  a  composed  mind.  It  was  in  vain ; 
he  felt  as  if  some  dread,  unseen  power  stood  near  him. 
He  would  have  spoken,  but  he  dared  not  in  such  a 
place. 

To  shake  this  off,  he  began  clambering  over  one 
ridge  after  another,  till,  passing  cautiously  round  a 
beetling  rock,  a  sharp  cry  from  out  it  shot  through  him. 
Every  small  jut  and  precipice  sent  it  back  with  a  Sa- 
tanic taunt ;  and  the  crowd  of  hollows  and  points 
seemed  for  the  instant  alive  with  fiends.  Paul's  blood 
ran  cold,  and  he  scarcely  breathed  as  he  waited  for 
their  cry  again ;  but  all  was  still.  Though  his  mind 
was  of  a  superstitious  cast,  he  had  fortitude  ;  and, 
ashamed  of  his  weakness,  he  reached  forward,  and 
stooping  down,  looked  into  the  cavity.  He  started  as 
his  eye  fell  on  the  object  within  it.  —  "  Who  and  what 
are  you?  Come  out,  and  let  mo.  see  whether  you  are 
man  or  devil."  And  out  crawled  a  miserable  boy,  look- 
ing as  if  shnuik  up  with  fear  and  famine.  "  Speak, 
and  trJI  me  who  you  are,  and  what  vou  do  here."  The 
20' 


306  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

poor  fellow's  jaws  moved  and  quivered,  but  he  could 
not  utter  a  sound.  His  spare  frame  shook,  and  his 
knees  knocked  against  each  other  as  in  an  ague  fit. 
Paul  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  His  loose,  shambly 
frame  was  nearly  fleshless ;  his  light,  sunburnt  hair 
hung  long  and  straight  round  his  thin  jaws  and  white 
eyes,  that  shone  with  a  delirious  glare,  as  if  his  mind 
had  been  terrour-struck.  There  was  a  sickly,  beseech- 
ing smile  about  his  mouth.  His  skin,  between  the  frec- 
kles, was  as  white  as  a  leper's,  and  his  teeth  long  and 
yellow.  He  looked  like  one  who  had  witnessed  the 
destruction  about  him,  and  was  the  only  living  thing 
spared,  to  make  death  seem  more  horrible.  —  "  Who 
put  you  here  to  starve  ?  "  said  Paul  to  him. 

"  Nobody,  Sir." 

"  Why  did  you  come,  then  ?  " 

"  I  can't  help  it ;  I  must  come." 

"  Must !  And  why  must  you  ?  "  —  The  boy  looked 
round  timidly,  and,  crouching  near  Paul,  said,  in  a 
tremulous,  low  voice,  his  eyes  glancing  fearfully 
through  the  chasm,  — " 'T  is  He,  'tis  He  that  makes 
me ! " 

Paul  turned  suddenly  round,  and  saw  before  him,  for 
the  first  time,  the  deserted  tract  of  pine  wood  and  sand 
which  has  been  described.  —  "  Who  and  where  is  he  ?  " 
asked  Paul,  impatiently,  expecting  to  see  some  one. 

"  There,  there,  in  the  wood  yonder,"  answered  the 
boy,  crouching  still  lower,  and  pointing  with  his  finger, 
whilst  his  hand  shook  as  if  palsied. 

"  I  see  nothing  but  these  pines.  What  possesses 
you  ?  Why  do  you  shudder  so,  and  look  so  pale  ? 
Uo  you  take  the  shadows  of  the  trees  for  devils  ?  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  them.  They  '11  be  on  me,  if  you 
talk  of  them  here."  wliispered  the  boy,  eagerly.     Drops 


I'AlL    PELTO.V.  307 

of  sweat  stood  on  his  brow  iroin  the  agony  of  terrour 
he  was  in.  As  Paul  looktnl  at  tlie  lad,  he  felt  sonie- 
tliinjT  like  fear  creeping  over  him.  He  turned  his  eyes 
invohintarily  to  the  wood  again.  —  "  If  we  must  not 
talk  here,"  said  he,  at  last,  "come  along  with  me,  and 
tell  me  what  all  this  means."  The  boy  rose,  and  fol- 
lowed close  to  Paul. 

"  Is  it  the  devil  you  have  seen,  that  you  shake  so  ?  " 

"  You  have  named  him  I  never  must.  I  have  seen 
strange  sights,  and  heard  sounds  whispered  close  to 
my  ears,  so  full  of  spite,  and  so  dreadful,  I  dared  not 
look  round  lest  I  should  see  some  awful  face  at  mine. 
I  've  thought  I  felt  it  touch  me  sometimes." 

''  And  what  wicked  thing  have  you  done,  that  they 
should  haunt  you  so  ?  " 

"  O,  Sir,  I  was  a  foolhardy  l)oy.  Two  years  ago  I 
was  not  afraid  of  anything.  Nobody  dared  go  into 
that  wood,  or  even  so  much  as  over  the  rocks,  to  k)ok 
at  it,  after  what  happened  there."  — "I  've  heard  a  fool- 
ish story,"  said  Paul.  —  "  So  once.  Sir,  the  thought  took 
me  that  I  would  go  there  a  bird-nesting,  and  bring 
home  the  eggs  and  show  to  the  men.  And  it  would 
never  out  of  my  mind  after,  though  I  began  to  wisii  I 
had  n't  thought  any  such  thing.  Every  night  when  I 
went  to  bed,  I  would  lie  and  say  to  myself,  '  To- 
morrow is  the  day  for  me  to  go.'  And  I  did  not  like 
to  be  alone  in  the  dark,  and  wanted  some  one  with  me 
to  touch  me  when  I  had  bad  dreams.  And  when  I 
waked  in  the  morning,  I  felt  as  if  something  dreadful 
was  coming  upon  me  before  niglit.  Well,  every  day, 
I  don't  know  how  it  was,  I  found  myself  near  this 
ri(l<re  ;  and  each  time  I  went  farllier  and  farther  up  it, 
tli<HiL'h  1  grew  more  niid  more  frightened.  And  when 
I  had  gone  as  far  as  I  dared,  I  was  afraid  io  wait,  but 


308  THE    IDLE    MAi\. 

would  turn  and  make  away  so  fast,  that  many  a  time  I 
fell  down  some  of  these  places,  and  got  lamed  and 
bruised.  The  boys  began  to  think  something;  and 
would  whisper  each  other  and  look  at  me,  and  when 
they  found  that  I  saw  them,  they  would  turn  away. 
It  grew  hard  for  me  to  make  one  at  their  games, 
though  once  I  used  to  be  the  first  chosen  in.  I  can't 
tell  how  it  was,  but  all  this  only  made  me  go  on  ;  and 
as  the  boys  kept  out  of  the  way,  I  began  to  feel  as  if  I 
must  do  what  I  had  thought  of,  and  as  if  there  was 
somebody,  I  could  n't  think  who,  that  was  to  have  me, 
and  make  me  do  what  he  pleased.  So  it  went  on,  Sir, 
day  after  day,"  continued  the  lad,  in  a  weak,  timid 
tone,  but  comforted  at  finding  one  to  tell  his  story  to> 
"  till  at  last  I  reached  as  far  as  the  hollow  where  you 
just  now  frighted  me  so,  when  I  heard  you  near  me.  I 
did  n't  run  off,  as  I  used  to  from  the  other  places,  but 
sat  down  under  the  rock.  Then  I  looked  out  and  saw 
the  trees.  I  tried  to  get  up  and  run  home,  but  I 
could  n't ;  I  was  afraid  to  come  out  and  go  round  the 
corner  of  the  rock.  I  tried  to  look  another  way,  but 
my  eyes  seemed  fastened  on  the  trees  ;  I  could  n't  take 
'em  off.  At  last  I  thought  something  told  me  it  was 
time  for  me  to  go  on.     I  got  up." 

Here  poor  Abel  shook  so,  that  he  seized  hold  of 
Paul's  arm  to  help  him.  Paul  recoiled,  as  if  an  un- 
clean creature  touched  him.     The  boy  shrank  back. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Paul,  recovering  himself.  The  boy 
took  comfort  from  the  sound  of  another's  voice. 

"  I  went  a  little  way  down  the  hollow.  Sir,  as  if 
drawn  along.  Then  I  came  to  a  steep  place.  I  put 
my  legs  over  to  let  myself  down ;  but  my  knees  grew  so 
weak  I  dared  not  trust  myself.  I  tried  to  draw  them 
up,  but  the  strength    was  all  gone  out  of   them,  and 


I'ALU   ri:i/rc).\. 


309 


then  my  feet  were  as  heavy  as  if  they  were  lead.  I 
gave  a  sereech ;  and  there  was  a  yell  elose  to  me  and 
for  miles  round  that  nigh  stunned  inc.  I  can't  say 
iiow,  but  the  last  thing  1  knew  was  my  leaping  along 
the  rocks,  while  there  was  nothing  but  flames  of  fire 
shooting  all  round  me.  It  was  scarce  mid-day  when 
I  left  home ;  and  when  I  came  to  myself  under  these 
locusts,  it  was  growing  dark." 

"  Sit  down  here  awhile,"  said  Paul,  looking  at  the 
boy  as  at  some  mysterious  being,  "  and  tell  out  your 
story." 

Glad  at  having  company,  the  boy  sat  down  upon  the 
grass,  and  went  on  with  his  tale.  —  "I  crawled  home 
as  well  as  I  could,  and  got  into  bed.  When  I  was 
falling  asleep,  I  had  the  same  feeling  I  had  when  sitting 
over  the  rock.  I  dared  not  lie  in  bed  any  longer ;  for  I 
could  ut  keep  awake  while  there.  Glad  was  I  when 
the  day  broke,  and  I  saw  a  neighbour  open  his  door 
and  come  out.  I  was  not  well  all  day  ;  and  I  tried  to 
think  myself  more  ill  than  I  was,  because  I  somehow 
thonght  that  then  I  need  n't  go  to  the  wood.  But  the 
next  day  He  was  not  to  be  put  off;  and  I  went,  though 
I  cried  and  prayed  all  the  way  that  I  might  not  be 
made  to  go.  But  I  could  not  stop  till  I  had  got  over 
the  hill  and  reached  the  sand  round  the  wood.  When 
I  put  my  foot  on  it,  all  the  joints  in  me  jerked  as  if 
they  would  not  hold  together,  so  that  I  cried  out  with 
the  pain.  When  I  came  under  tlie  trees,  there  was  a 
deep  sound,  and  great  shadows  were  all  ronnd  me. 
My  hair  stood  on  end,  and  my  eyes  kept  gliimiirring ; 
yet  I  could  n't  go  back.  I  went  on  till  1  found  a 
crow's  nest.  I  climbed  tlic  tree  ;uid  took  out  the  eggs. 
The  old  crow  kept  Hying  round  and  round  nic  As 
soon  as  1  felt  the  eggs  in  my  hand  and  my  work  done, 


310  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

I  dropped  from  the  tree  and  ran  for  the  hollow.  T 
can't  tell  how  it  was,  but  it  seemed  to  me  I  did  n't 
gain  a  foot  of  ground  :  it  was  just  as  if  the  whole 
wood  went  with  me.  Then  I  thought  He  had  me  his. 
The  ground  began  to  bend  and  the  trees  to  move.  At 
last  I  was  nigh  blind.  I  struck  against  one  tree  and 
another  till  I  fell  to  the  ground.  How  long  I  lay  there 
I  can't  tell ;  but  ^vhen  I  came  to,  I  was  on  the  sand, 
the  sun  blazing  hot  upon  me,  and  my  skin  scorched  up. 
I  was  so  stiff,  and  ached  so,  I  could  hardly  stand  up- 
right. I  did  n't  feel  or  think  anything  after  this,  and 
hardly  knew  where  I  was,  till  somebody  came  and 
touched  me,  and  asked  me  whether  I  was  walking  in 
my  sleep ;  and  I  looked  up  and  found  myself  close 
home. 

"  The  boys  began  to  gather  round  me,  as  if  I  were 
something  strange  ;  and  when  I  looked  at  them  they 
would  move  back  from  me.  — '  What  have  you  been 
doing,  Abel  ? '  one  of  them  asked  me,  at  last.  — '  No 
good,  I  warrant  you,'  answered  another  who  stood 
back  of  me.  And  when  I  turned  round  to  speak  to 
him,  he  drew  behind  the  others,  as  if  afraid  I  should 
harm  him :  and  I  was  too  weak  and  frightened  to  hurt 
a  fly.  —  'See  his  hands;  they  are  stained  all  over!' 
'  And  there  's  a  crow's  egg,  as  I  'm  alive ! '  said  another. 
'  And  the  crow  is  the  devil's  bird,  Tom,  is  n't  it  ? ' 
asked  a  little  boy.  '  O  Abel,  you  've  been  to  that 
wood,  and  made  yourself  over  to  Him ! '  —  They  moved 
oif,  one  after  another,  every  now  and  then  turning 
round  and  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  cursed.  After 
this  they  would  not  speak  to  me,  or  come  nigh  me.  I 
heard  people  talking,  and  saw  them  going  about,  but 
not  one  of  them  all  could  I  speak  to,  or  get  to  come 
near  me.     It  was  dreadful,  being  so  alone !     I  met  a 


PAIL  rr.r-TON.  811 

boy  that  used  to  be  with  me  all  clay  long;  and  I 
begged  him  not  to  go  off  from  me  so,  and  to  stop,  if 
it  were  only  for  a  moment.  '  You  played  with  me 
once,'  said  1 ;  '  and  won't  you  so  much  as  look  at  me, 
or  ask  me  how  I  am,  when  I  am  so  weak  and  ill  ? ' 
He  began  to  liang  back  a  little,  and  I  thought,  from  his 
face,  that  he  jiitied  me.  I  could  have  cried  for  joy ; 
and  was  going  up  to  him,  but  he  turned  away.  I 
called  out  after  him,  telling  him  that  I  would  not  so 
much  as  touch  him  with  my  finger,  or  come  any  nigher 
to  him,  if  he  would  only  stop  and  speak  one  word  to 
me ;  but  he  went  away  shaking  his  head,  and  mutter- 
ing something,  I  hardly  knew  what,  how  that  I  did 
not  belong  to  them,  but  was  the  Evil  One's  now.  I 
sat  down  on  a  stone  and  cried,  and  wished  I  was  dead ; 
for  I  could  n't  help  it,  Though  it  was  wicked  in  me  to 
do  so." 

"  And  is  there  no  one  who  will  notice  you,  or  speak 
to  you?  Do  you  live  so  alone  now?"  It  made 
Paul's  heart  ache  to  look  down  upon  the  pining,  for- 
lorn creature  before  him. 

"Not  a  soul,''  whined  out  the  boy.  "My  grand- 
mother is  dead  now;  and  only  the  gentlefolks  give  me 
anything;  for  they  don't  seem  afraid  of  me,  though 
they  look  as  if  they  did  n't  like  me,  and  wanted  me 
gone.  All  I  can.  F  tivt  to  eat  in  the  woods,  and  I  beg  out 
of  the  village.  But  1  dare  not  go  far,  because  I  don't 
know  when  He  will  want  me.  But  I  am  not  alone  ; 
He  's  with  me  day  and  night.  As  I  go  along  the  street 
in  the  daytime  I  f<'el  Him  near  me,  thongh  I  can't  see 
Him  :  and  it  is  as  if  He  were  speaking  to  me  ;  and  yet 
1  don't  hear  any  words.  He  makes  me  follow  Him  to 
that  wood;  and  I  liavr  to  sit  llic  whole  day  where  you 
found  lui'.      \  (Ian-   not   coiiiplaiii  ;  and    I   am  al'raid  to 


312  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

stir  till  I  feel  He  will  let  me  go.  I  've  looked  at  the 
pines,  sometimes,  till  I  have  seen  spirits  moving  all 
through  them.  O,  't  is  an  awful  place !  They  breathe 
cold  upon  me  when  He  makes  me  go  there." 

"  Poor  wretch  I  "  said  Paul. 

"  I  'm  weak  and  hungry ;  yet  when  I  try  to  eat, 
something  chokes  me  ;  —  I  don't  love  what  I  eat." 

"  Come  along  with  me,  and  you  shall  have  some- 
thing to  nourish  and  warm  you ;  for  you  are  pale,  and 
shiver  and  look  cold  here  in  the  very  sun. 

The  boy  looked  up  at  Paul,  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks  at  hearing  one  speak  so  kindly  to 
him.  He  got  up,  and  followed  meekly  after  to  the 
house. 

Paul,  seeing  a  servant  in  the  yard,  ordered  the  boy 
something  to  eat.  The  man  cast  his  eye  upon  Abel, 
and  then  looked  at  Paul  as  if  he  had  not  understood 
him.  —  "  I  spoke  distinctly  enough,"  said  Paul.  "  And 
don't  you  see  that  the  boy  is  nigh  starved  ?  "  —  The 
man  gave  a  mysterious  look  at  both  of  them,  and  with 
a  shake  of  his  head,  as  he  turned  away,  went  to  do 
as  he  was  bid. 

"  What  means  the  fellow  ?  "  said  Paul  to  himself,  as 
he  entered  the  house.  "  Does  he  take  me  to  be  bound 
to  Satan  too  ?  Yet  there  may  be  bonds  upon  the  soul, 
though  we  know  it  not ;  and  evil  spirits  at  work  within 
us  of  whom  we  little  dream.  Are  there  no  beings  but 
those  seen  of  mortal  eye,  or  felt  by  mortal  touch  ?  Are 
there  not  passing  in  and  around  this  piece  of  mov- 
ing mould,  in  which  the  spirit  is  pent  up,  those  whom 
it  hears  not  ?  those  whom  it  has  no  finer  sense  where- 
by to  commune  with  ?  Are  all  the  instant  joys  that 
come  and  go,  we  know  not  whence  or  whither,  but 
creations  of  the  mind  ?     Or  are  they  not,  rather,  bright 


TALL    lELTO.N.  313 

and  heavenly  messengers,  whom,  when  this  spirit  is  set 
free,  it  will  see  in  all  their  beauty,  —  whose  sweet 
sounds  it  will  then  drink  in? —  Yes,  it  is,  it  is  so;  and 
all  around  us  is  populous  with  beings  now  invisible  to 
us  as  this  circling  air," 

So  fully  had  such  thoughts  absorbed  Paul's  mind, 
that  when,  upon  entering  the  room,  he  met  Esther  and 
her  father,  he  started  as  if  the  sight  of  flesh  and  blood 
were  new  to  him.  At  dinner  he  seemed  but  half  con- 
scious of  what  was  before  him ;  his  look  and  manner 
were  abstracted ;  and  when  he  replied  to  any  remark, 
his  answers  were  abrupt  and  from  the  purpose. 

"  You  are  a  good  deal  of  a  dreamer,  I  know,"  said 
!\Ir.  Waring  at  last ;  "  but  I  think  I  never  saw  you  less 
awake  to  what  is  homely  and  substantial  in  this  world 
we  live  in." 

"  They  sleep,  and  their  eyes  are  sealed,  who  do  not 
look  beyond  it,"  said  Paul. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  Esther ;  but  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  husband,  who  did  not  observe  it,  for 
his  were  cast  down.  Her  heart  beat  with  uneasy  sen- 
sations, and  uncertain  thoughts  troubled  her.  She 
tried  to  command  herself;  and  as  soon  as  she  could, 
she  spoke  to  him  in  an  aflectionate,  cheerful  voice. 
He  looked  suddenly  up  at  her  with  a  fond  gaze,  as  if 
an  angel  had  sj)()ken  to  him  out  of  a  cloud.  —  "  Ah," 
said  she,  "  have  I  called  you  back  to  earth  again  ?  " 

"  Scarce  to  earth,"  he  said,  his  snlVnsed  eyes  resting 
on  her  beautiful  face.  —  He  had  (piite  forgotten  that 
any  one  was  by,  till  the  old  gentleman  spoke.  The 
blood  went  (piick  to  his  cheek. 

"  What,  so  long  married,  and  a  lov(>r  yet  ?  "  cried 
Mr.  Waring.  '•  1  thonglii  love  would  iiavc  become  a 
dearer  sort  of  friendship  ere  this." 

VOL.  I.  '27 


314 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


"  I  doubt,"  answered  Paul,  glad  to  turn  the  affair 
into  a  speculation,  "  I  doubt  whether,  in  certain  minds, 
love  ever  so  changes  its  nature.  It  is  a  part  of  their 
constitution,  and  endures  as  long  as  they  do  ;  at  least, 
I  think  so  ;  though  I  cannot  tell  what  old  age  and  gi'ay 
hairs  may  do  toward  a  change.  It  is  the  only  thing 
that  has  made  me  recoil  from  the  thought  of  being 
old." 

"  And  what  would  you  make  of  a  pair  of  married 
lovers  of  threescore  ?  " 

"  I  like  not  thinking  of  it,"  he  said,  with  a  fitful  ex- 
pression of  pain.  "  I  would  rather  part  soul  and  body, 
than  lose  long-cherished  and  dear  thoughts.  Nor  do  I 
believe  they  will  be  lost.  Those  who  are  made  ready 
for  a  happy  state  hereafter  must  rest  their  chief  hopes 
and  pleasures,  even  in  their  attachments  here,  on  that 
which  is  fitted  to  live  for  ever.  The  corruption  of  hu- 
manity that  is  now  about  us  will  drop  off,  but  essen- 
tially, I  trust,  our  feelings  and  joys  will  remain  the 
same.  What  makes  my  soul's  chief  earthly  happiness 
would  be  my  misery,  did  I  not  believe  it  eternal,  like 
the  soul  itself.  To  die  will  be  but  the  full  opening  of 
this  same  mind,  with  all  its  good  affections,  (which  no 
more  than  bud  here,)  to  the  light  and  the  sweet  air  of 
heaven.  Is  what  we  tread  on  here  truth,  and  our  im- 
aginations a  lie  ?  I  would  believe  that  these  high  and 
gladdening  conceptions  are  not  all  a  cheat,  but  that 
they  will  one  day  open  in  glory  on  our  cleared  and 
delighted  vision.  What  is  beautiful  and  true  here, 
though  it  perish  for  a  season,  will  pvit  forth  again 
in  more  perfect  beauty  in  the  morning  light  of  that 
sun  which  shall  never  go  down.  —  Pardon  my  warmth, 
Sir,"  said  he,  suddenly  checking  himself. 

"  Then,"  said   Mr.  Waring,  "  you  think  that   not  a 


PAUL    FELTON.  315 

little  of  the  after  existence  of  the  happy  \\n\\  be  made 
up  of  the  same  aftections  that  possess  us  here,  purified, 
exalted,  and  inrtuonced,  no  doubt,  you  mean,  by  a  con- 
stant and  a  fuller  love,  and  a  clearer  knowledge  of 
God." 

'*  Much  so,  Sir.  The  same  affections,  conforming 
themselves  to  a  change  of  state  and  circumstances. 
But  that  love  of  God  hereafter  of  which  you  speak, 
that  consciousness  of  Him,  must  be  the  princij)lc  of 
life  in  them  here,  too,  or  they  will  live  only  in  time,  by 
and  by  to  rot," 

'•  Has  not  your  religion  too  much  to  do  with  the 
senses  ?  " 

'•  I  think  not.  —  As  if  sin  had  not  set  us  far  enough 
off  from  God  and  the  spiritual,  we  give  to  all  that  re- 
lates to  these  an  abstract  character,  and  then  put  om' 
faculties  upon  the  stretch  tt)  reach  to  some  realizing 
apprehension  of  them  ;  we  make  God  a  sort  of  univer- 
sal intelligence,  take  for  mere  metaphor  those  terms  in 
which  He  speaks  of  his  afi'ectioiis  as  so  like  our  own, 
and  then  try  after  a  love  of  Him ;  we  destroy  imper- 
sonation, as  if  it  were  an  easier  thing  to  fasten  our 
affections  upon  an  abstract  principle^,  and  thus  war 
against  one  of  the  strongest  j)ropcnsities  of  our  nature, 
and  the  manifestations  of  Himself  in  the  outward 
world,  and  the  pervading  character,  the  leading  facts 
and  declarations  of  llis  written  Revelation.  We  have 
not  learned  that  the  main  distinction  between  us,  the 
created,  and  Him,  the  Creator,  is  that  between  sin  and 
holiness,  finite  and  infinite ;  and  we  shall  awake  in 
utter  amaze  in  th(!  other  world,  to  find  how  little  we  dif- 
fer from  Him  in  kind,  though  infinitely  in  degree.  In 
short,  .shall  we  not  awake  '  in  liis  likeness'?  'j'hough 
God,  as  it  were,  lifts  uj)  the  small  llower  at  our  feet,  and 


316  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

asks  US  to  look  on  it,  and  see  how  He  cares  for  every 
little  thing,  and  hath  pleasure  in  its  beauty,  —  nay, 
though  He  has  done  more  than  this,  and  has  come  very 
nigh  to  us,  taking  upon  Him  our  own  nature,  —  yet, 
through  the  fatuity  of  sin,  we  persist  in  making  Him  a 
God  afar  off.  We  do  not,  if  I  may  so  speak,  human- 
ize our  religion  enough  ;  and  thus  we  deprive  ourselves 
of  much  assured  rest  and  strong  heart-comfort.  We 
have  burned  our  idols  of  wood,  and  broken  our  idols  of 
stone,  and  now  worship  an  Idea.  Though  our  God  has 
come  to  us  standing  between  these  two  extremes,  it  may 
be  said  of  us,  as  was  said  by  Saint  John  of  those  of  old, 
'  There  standeth  one  among  you  whom  ye  know  not ' ; 
and  so  long  as  we  know  not  Him,  we  cannot  know 
ourselves,  or  understand  that  unity  of  duality  in  our 
own  natures,  the  Divine- Human ;  we  cannot  learn  the 
meaning  of  the  first  words  spoken  concerning  us  in  the 
Book  of  God,  — '  Let  us  make  man  in  our  own  image, 
after  our  likeness.' 

"  You  may  perhaps.  Sir,  think  me  presumptuous,  in 
reasoning  about  that  of  which  we  know  so  little ; 
though,  if  I  deceive  not  myself,  it  is  a  reasoning  which 
comes  of  a  sense  of  humble  and  willing  dependence, 
and  not  of  self-dependent  pride.  But  I  began  with 
simply  saying  what  were  my  hopes  and  wishes,  and 
what  gave  me  here  that  which  seemed  to  me  like  a 
foretaste  of  joys  hereafter,  and  had  at  times  persuaded 
me  that  what  I  felt  was  not  a  vain  imagination.  I 
cannot  so  separate  the  natures  of  the  mind  and  senses, 
as  some  would  do.  There  is  not  an  earthly  beauty  I 
look  upon  that  has  not  something  spiritual  in  it  to  me. 
And  when  my  mind  is  fair  and  open,  and  soul  right, 
there  is  not  a  flower  I  see  that  does  not  move  my 
heart  to  feel  towards  it  as  a  child  of  God.     What  is, 


PAUL    FKLTO.N'. 


317 


to  my  mind,  is  a  type  of  what  i^hall  be ;  and  iny  own 
being  and  soul  seem  to  me  as  if  linked  with  it  to  eter- 
nity.  I  know  tiiat  to  many  tiiis  is  mere  folly,  and  that 
even  to  those  of  highest  reach  it  is  but  vague ;  for  wiiat 
more  can  we  have  while  here  than  intimations  sind  dim 
semblances  of  eternity?  Yet,  to  question  it  because 
lie  knows  no  more,  a  man  might  as  well  deny  he  has  a 
heart;  for  he  will  find  that  growing  the  more  a  mys- 
tery, the  deeper  he  ponders  it.  We  think  of  angels 
as  having  shapes  and  voices ;  and  if  the  unbelieving 
would  say  that  the  Writ  is  false,  how  came  the  mind 
of  man,  from  the  beginning,  to  conceive  of  such  things 
as  true?  Is  that  connected  with  our  highest  faith,  and 
what  seems  inborn  in  the  mind,  a  lie?" 

Paul  became  silent ;  and  he  was  filled  with  happier 
and  calmer  emotions  than  he  had  known  for  a  long 
time.  Esther  observed  his  tranquillity,  and  for  a  while 
she  was  blessed  with  the  belief  that  it  would  be  last- 
ing. She  knew  that  such  thoughts  were  not  strangers 
to  him ;  but  she  had  seen  them  before  only  when  they 
came  and  went  swiftly,  lifting  him  suddenly  and  wildly 
out  of  horrour  and  despair  to  a  rapturous  height,  then 
leaving  him  to  sink  deeper  than  ever.  When  dark 
thoughts  and  passions  seized  him,  they  seemed  to  her 
more  like  outward  powers  which  drove  him  whiiiur 
they  would,  than  like  things  springing  from  his  own 
mind  and  Ix-art.  'riiere  was  a  mystery  about  them 
that  made  her  fear  when  they  took  him,  and  her  heart 
bled  with  j)ity  for  him. 

There  are  souls  who  have  hoiirs  of  bright  and  holy 
aspirations,  when  they  feel  as  if  nothing  of  earth  or  sin 
could  touch  them  more ;  but  in  the  nudst  of  their  clear 
and  joyous  calm  they  feel  some  dark  and  frightful  pas- 
sion, Uke  an   ugly  devil,  begiiming  to  stir  witlun  them. 


•J7 


318  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Their  minds  try  to  fly  from  it,  but,  as  if  it  saw  its  hour, 
it  seizes  on  its  prey  with  a  fanged  hold,  and  there  is  no 
escape.  Perhaps  there  are  no  minds,  of  the  highest 
intellectual  order,  that  have  not  known  moments  when 
they  would  have  fled  from  thoughts  and  sensations 
which  they  felt  to  be  like  visitants  from  hell. 

Paul's  mind  was  of  this  structure  ;  and  so  long  and 
violently  had  he  suffered  under  such  influences,  that 
his  natural  superstition,  heightened  by  them,  had  al- 
most persuaded  him  his  passions  were  good  or  evil 
spirits  which  had  power  to  bless  or  curse  him.  The 
story  and  the  appearance  of  poor  Abel  haunted  him. 
He  called  it  insanity  in  Abel ;  but  he  could  not  shake 
off'  the  feeling,  that  the  miserable  wretch  was  the  victim 
of  a  demon.  He  began  to  tremble  for  himself;  and 
when  he  felt  his  passions  in  motion,  the  thought  that 
they  were  powers  it  was  in  vain  to  struggle  against 
almost  drove  him  mad. 

The  night  for  the  ball  at  last  came,  and  Esther's 
spirits  rose  as  the  hour  drew  nigh.  She  had  left  home 
but  little  for  a  good  while  past ;  and  though  her  love 
for  Paul  was  almost  devotion,  and  there  was  a  peculiar 
sentiment  and  delicacy  in  his  little  attentions  to  her 
and  the  fondness  he  showed  her,  yet  an  undefined  awe, 
a  dread  of  the  happening  of  something  evil,  oppressed 
her  daily  more  and  more,  and  any  change  seemed  to 
be  the  lifting  of  a  weight  from  the  heart  to  let  it  beat 
freely  again.  Her  mind  and  senses  were  peculiarly 
sensitive  and  exquisitely  alive  to  enjoyment,  and  her 
heart  seemed  to  be  in  whatever  she  said  or  did.  When 
Paul  was  happy,  he  dwelt  on  this  with  a  delight  that 
cannot  be  told  ;  but  when  a  gloom  hung  on  his  mind, 
and  he  saw  her  eloquent,  impassioned  face  and  earnest 
gestures,  he  remembered   how  deceitful  and  prone  to 


PAII,     FKl.TON".  319 

ill  are  the  best  hearts,  how  soon  the  warmed  passions 
may  turn  from  i^^ood  to  evil,  and  lie  hardly  dared  look 
on  what  he  iiidistinetly  dreaded. 

Ksther  eame  bouiidiiiij  towards  Paul  with  a  step  as 
light  as  it  she  needed  only  air  To  iread  on.  *"  Rouse 
you,  dreamer,"  said  she,  playluUy  jogging  him;  "we 
are  late.  Look  up.  and  vow  to  me  that  I  was  never 
half  so  beautiful  before." 

"  O,  that  I  ean  vow  to  you  from  day  to  day ;  for  you 
grow  in  beauty  on  me,  as  you  grow  closer  and  closer 
to  my  heart." 

''  What  an  angelic  creature  T  shall  seem  to  you  at 
fifty,  then  I  How  lucky  for  me  that  I  am  yours  ;  for 
who  else  would  praise  my  beauty  when  I  am  turned 
of  two-score  ?  " 

"  Be  not  too  sure,  Esther ;  my  eyes  may  be  shut  to 
all  beauty  before  that  time  comes.  Then  you  may 
find  others  to  praise  it  in  you,  —  if  you  will  believe 
them." 

"Not  of  death  now,  Paul, —  not  of  death  now  I  — 
Come,  let  us  be  going.  We  have  lived  here  in  this 
stillness  so  long,  that  the  sound  of  pi|)e  and  tabor  will 
stir  my  blood  like  a  new-eome  Greenland  siunmer." 

••  It  is  at  a  full  and  quick  beat  now,  if  I  feel  it  right," 
said  he,  holding  her  by  the  wrist;  "  a  little  faster  might 
do  you  harm." 

"Beat  it  slow  or  fast,  Paul,  there's  not  a  drop  of 
it  courses  through  the  heart,  that  is  not  warm  to  me 
with  a  love  for  you.     Think  you  I  profess  too  much?  " 

"  No,  not  too  much." 

"Why,  then,  look  you  so  sad  ui)on  it?" 

"  To  remember  that  1  cannot  always  think  so." 

"  And  why  not  always  ?  Do  you  hold  mc  of  so  un- 
stable a  nature  ? " 


320  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  Ask  me  not  what  I  cannot  answer  you.  It  is  not 
myself,"  he  cried  ;  "  They  haunt  me.  I  cannot  scape 
them.  —  Away,  away,  I'm  not  your  prey  yet!"  He 
walked  the  room  violently,  his  clasped  hands  pressing 
down  upon  his  head,  as  if  his  brain  would  burst  with 
its  working.  His  eyes  were  set,  and  his  teeth  ground 
against  each  other.  He  stopped,  and  his  frame  loos- 
ened from  its  tenseness.  " 'T  is  over!"  he  sighed  out, 
spreading  his  arms  wide,  as  if  just  set  free. 

Esther  shook  with  fear  as  she  stood  fixed,  gazing  at 
him.  When  the  change  to  quiet  came  on,  she  went 
to  him.  "  Paul,  my  husband,  come  to  me  ;  tell  me 
what  terrible  thoughts  they  are  that  tear  you  so." 

"  Thoughts,  call  you  them  ?  Visions,  shadows,  hor- 
rible, homble  shadows !  Speak  not  of  them  ;  call  them 
not  round  me  again.  O  Esther,  I  am  sore  afflicted ; 
I  would  I  might  not  suffer  so.  Pray  for  my  soul's 
peace,  Esther.  It  longs,  it  longs  to  rest  quietly  in  its 
love  for  you.  Put  your  arms  round  me.  There ! 
there !  " 

"  If  they  would  keep  you  thus,  I  would  shelter  you 
day  and  night,  Paul,  and  look  and  think  on  nothing 
but  you." 

"  Even  here  I  am  not  safe ;  there  's  no  place  of  ref- 
uge for  the  hunted  soul." 

"  Above  there  is,  Paul,  if  we  but  reach  upward." 

"  I  've  striven  in  agony  to  reach  it ;  but  when  they 
will,  these  horrours,  that  have  no  name,  pluck  me 
down !  —  But  come,  they  've  left  me  now,  and  the 
bosom  's  free  again."  He  held  her  at  arm's  length, 
and  stood  gazing  on  her.  "  And  could  dark,  terrible 
thoughts  shake  me  so  before  all  this  light  and  beauty  ? 
Why,  Esther,  I  feel,  by  you,  like  a  cast-out  angel  by 
the  side  of  one  who  had  stood  faithful.     I  've  held  you 


PAII-    FELTON.  321 

too  long.  Your  fatlier  waits  for  you ;  go,  and  forget 
my  madness." 

"  Not  without  you,  Paul." 

"What,  fl  Xo,  in  faith  I  A  married  pair  go  regu- 
larly coupled  at  the  hour  set  I  No,  iio,  I  'm  not  such 
a  rustic  as  you  take  me  for." 

"  Do  not  so  suddenly  trille  in  this  way,  Paul ;  it 
grieves  me  more  than  all;  it  is  not  your  disposi- 
tion." 

"  In  earnest,  then,  the  blood  heaves  too  violently 
through  me  yet ;  when  it  flows  quietly  I  '11  come  to 
you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  gently  as  he  put  her  into  the 
carriage,  and  gave  her  one  of  those  smiles  which  al- 
ways went  like  sunshine  to  Esther's  heart.  He  saw 
her  look  back  after  him  as  the  carriage  turned  down 
the  road,  and  stretched  his  arms  out  towards  her  as  if 
to  clasp  her  to  him.  As  he  raised  his  hands  upward, 
"  O  Heaven,"  he  said,  "  thou  hast  given  her  to  me 
as  more  than  an  earthly  blessing;  let  it  not  jjrove  a 
curse  upon  my  soul!"  He  felt  something  clasp  his 
knees  ;  and,  looking  down,  sprang  as  from  the  coil  of 
a  serpent.  "  Were  you  sent  to  snare  me  now,  you  imp 
of  hell  ?     How  crawh^d  you  here,  and  for  what  ?  " 

"  I  watched  for  you  under  this  thorn,"  whined  out 
poor  Abel ;  "  for  I  shall  die  if  I  cannot  see  you  and 
speak  to  you.  And  when  you  i^rayed,  I  came  up  to 
you  to  have  you  pray  for  me,  that  I  might  be  spared 
going,  if  't  were  only  for  this  one  night." 

"  I  've  sins  and  tortures  of  my  own  enough.  Pray 
for  yourself,  wretch." 

"  I  dare  not,  T  dare  not,"  cried  Abel,  "lest  He  come 
and  toniiml  inc  ().  help  iiid  ^'on  were  good  to  me 
once." 


322  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  And  what  mortal  might  can  shield  you  against 
unearthly  powers  ?  " 

"  I  feel  safer  when  near  you,  though  you  make  me 
tremble.  Not  a  soul  beside  will  so  much  as  hear  me 
when  T  call  after  them.  I  've  thought  that  perhaps 
nobody  but  you  could  hear  me  any  more." 

"  And  why  I  ?  —  Don't  put  your  lean  hand  on  me !  " 

Abel  shrunk  back.  The  loathing  that  Paul  felt 
turned  to  pity.  "  Come,  you  are  hungiy,  and  must 
have  something  to  strengthen  you."  He  took  the  boy 
into  the  house ;  and,  having  seen  him  fed,  gave  him  an 
old  rug  to  lie  upon.  "  Sleep  there,  Abel ;  you  shall  not 
to  the  wood  to-night."  Abel  felt  comforted  and  pro- 
tected for  the  first  time  since  the  thought  of  the  wood 
entered  his  head.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  in  a  sound 
sleep. 

Paul  took  his  way  along  the  greensward  to  the  vil- 
lage. As  he  passed  the  bush  under  which  Abel  had 
been  sitting,  he  involuntarily  moved  a  little  aside  from 
it.  —  "  Why  has  that  boy  fastened  so  on  me  ?  I  like  it 
not.  There  will  no  good  come  of  it.  When  he  is 
near  me,  I  feel  him  as  one  who  is  cursed  and  bring- 
ing a  curse.  The  powers  of  darkness  put  him  be- 
tween me  and  mine,  and  promptings  of  dreadful  por- 
tent are  whispering  in  my  ear."  His  mind  grew  more 
distvirbed  as  he  went  forward  ruminating  on  these 
things,  till,  having  nearly  reached  the  end  of  his  walk, 
he  stopped  under  a  large  tree,  that  he  might  gain 
sufficient  composure  and  a  clear  brow  to  enter  the 
room. 

Not  a  leaf  moved,  and  the  stars  were  shining  on  in 
silence.  Suddenly  the  music  burst  forth  from  the  hall : 
to  Paul  it  was  like  a  crash  that  jarred  the  still  universe. 
"'T  is  hateful  to  me;  —  noise,  and  folly,  and  hot,  hot 


PAIL    FELTOX.  323 

blood  I  ^Ya^m  hands,  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  liigh- 
beating  bosoms  I  And  she  who  an  hour  ago  would 
have  sheltered  Paul  and  looked  and  thought  on  none 
but  liiin,  —  no  more  to  her  now  than  if  he  had  never 
IxHMi.  or  had  slept  a  twelvemonth  in  his  gravel 
These  creatures  are  beautiful  and  fair,  and  would  be 
innocent  as  flowers,  did  none  but  heaven's  winds 
visit  them ;  but  the  world's  breath  blows  on  them, 
and  they  are  tainted,  tainted!  Beings  all  of  sensa- 
tions ;  and,  so,  love  is  grateful  to  them.  But  it  roots 
not  deep  and  silently  as  in  man,  from  whom  to  pluck 
it  out  tears  up  heart  and  all.  —  Leave  me,  leave  me, 
let  me  not  think  on  't  I  "  He  hurried  forward,  as  if  to 
fly  from  the  thought. 

Scarcely  considering  whither  he  was  going,  he  was 
soon  before  the  folding-doors  of  the  hall.  Coming 
out  of  the  quiet  and  the  dim  light,  the  flare  of  the 
lamps,  tiie  wiiirl  and  confused  motions,  and  the  Babel 
sounds  of  a  ball-room,  breaking  suddenly  upon  him, 
])linded  and  confused  him.  He  pressed  his  brow,  to 
recover  himself  a  little,  and  ilu-n  entered  the  room. 

One  who  is  \mused  to  such  scenes  is  hardly  able,  at 
first,  to  Tell  his  j'amiliar  acciuaintances.  Paul  was  in 
anxious  search  of  one,  as  he  passed  round  the  room 
close  to  the  wall.  Tie  had  just  gone  by  her  without 
perceivinrr  her.  wlien  a  well-known  laugh,  though  a 
little  louder  than  usual,  made  him  stop.  As  he  turned, 
FiSther  sprang  forward  in  the  dance  as  if  on  air.  The 
bright  smile  of  pleasure  was  on  her  face,  as  she  gave 
Frank  her  hand  ;  and  as  they  bounded  swiftly  by  Paul, 
without  observing  him,  he  saw  the  warm  glow  upon 
lier  cheek,  her  eyes  turiiecl  a  little  u|)wanl.  sullused  and 
sj)arkliMij,  lier  (l;irk  lloating  curls  rising,  then  just  touch- 
ing her  snowy   Ibrehead,   then  lifted   with   tlu^   motion 


324  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

again,  her  bosom  tinged  with  a  delicate  tint,  and  mov- 
ing with  a  fluttering  beat.  —  "  Heaven  and  hell  I  "  said 
he  to  himself,  "  ye  work  side  by  side  in  this  world, 
though  with  opposite  intent."  Every  nerve  in  his 
body  seemed  to  shoot  and  burn  with  electric  fire.  The 
sensation  passed  off,  and  left  a  weak,  sick  feeling,  so 
that  he  could  scarcely  stand.  A  damp  stood  on  his 
pale  brow  and  trembling  hands.  He  drew  behind  a 
couple  of  gentlemen,  who  were  talking  together  while 
looking  on  the  dance,  and  leaned  against  the  wall.  For 
a  time  he  dared  not  look  up ;  nor  did  he  hear  any 
sound  till  the  conversation  of  the  gentlemen  suddenly 
drew  his  attention. 

"  What  an  exquisite  figure,  and  how  pliable  and 
graceful ! "  remarked  one.     "  Every  limb  is  full  of  life." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other ;  "  and  how  sinuous  the 
motions !  They  run  into  each  other  like  the  swells  of 
the  sea.  O,  she  's  a  very  Perdita  in  the  dance.  —  Be- 
fore he  went  away  Frank  was  an  elegant  looking  fel- 
low, and  travel  has  improved  him  wonderfully.  I 
would  bet  my  head  on 't,  that  she  is  sighing  this  mo- 
ment at  thinking  she  said  him  nay,  or  had  not  waited 
to  see  him  what  he  is  now,  that  she  might  to-night  un- 
say it  again." 

"  Then  she  is  a  betrothed  damsel,  ha  ?  Poor  girl, 
that  she  should  be  in  such  haste !  I  warrant  you,  this 
dancing  partnership  will  put  thoughts  into  her  head 
which  a  lover  would  hardly  like  finding  there.  It  will 
be  well  for  her,  by  and  by,  if  she  does  not  talk  in  her 
sleep." 

"  If  she  can't  teach  her  tongue  silence  at  such  a 
time,  it  is  a  gone  case  with  her  already,  for  she  was 
married  long  ago." 

"  And  what  gallant  knight  won  her  ?     He  must  keep 


TALL    FKl/rON.  325 

watch  and  ward,  for,  in  faith,  I  've  half  a  mind  to 
make  oft'  with  her  myself,  could  I  brini^  her  to  it."' 

''  No  hard  matter  that,  if  report  speaks  her  lord  truly. 
'Tiriasort  of  Vulcan  and  Venus  match,  I  am  told, 
and  that  he  looks  as  black  as  if  just  out  of  a  smithy, 
and  is  glum,  and  says  nothing.  By  all  accounts,  they 
are  dead  opposites,  both  in  mind  and  body.  She  will 
be  on  the  wing  all  night,  I  vouch  for  it,  and  make  up 
for  the  last  month's  caging." 

"  Poor  girl,  I  pity  her.  But  how  could  she  find  it  in 
her  heart  to  refuse  Ridgley  ?  I  should  have  thought 
that,  for  a  man  like  him,  once  asking  would  have  been 
enough  anywhere." 

"  Why,  lord,  she  no  more  meant  it,  than  she  did  to 
die  a  maid.  The  blockhead  might  have  known  she 
was  a  coquette,  as  every  one  else  did,  and  that  she  was 
but  teasing  him.  One,  with  half  an  eye,  might  have 
seen  what  a  favourite  he  was  with  her.  Why,  she 
would  have  gone  to  church  barefoot  rather  than  not 
have  had  him.  The  fool  took  her  in  earnest  and  went 
upon  his  travels,  and  she  married  to  vex  him.  Silly 
things  I  Unless  she  wears  the  widow's  stole,  they  may 
pine  their  hearts  out  now,  —  or  else  the  stars  must 
wink  at  it.  But  come  away ;  I  '11  look  no  longer,  lest 
I  covet  my  neighbour's  wife."  —  And  ofl'  they  moved, 
arm  in  arm,  casting  their  eyes  back  upon  Esther  as 
they  went. 

Each  word  they  uttered  entered  Paul's  soul.  His 
brain  felt  tightened,  like  sinews,  with  the  dreadful 
thoughts  that  rose  in  his  mind;  and  th(  misgivings 
and  surmises  of  his  doubting  and  ghiomy  spirit,  on 
which,  till  now,  he  scarcely  dared  send  a  glance,  were 
turiK.'d  to  certainties;  and  \\r  lUstnicd  on  iIkmii  as  if 
under  the  working  of  a  charm.     He  pressi'd  with  his 

vol..   t.  2H 


326  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

back  against  the  wall,  his  eyes  as  fixed  as  if  crowds  of 
spectres  were  rising  up  before  him ;  and  his  hair  stood 
on  end,  as  if  life  were  in  it.  Those  near  him  observed 
his  strange  appearance,  and  drew  slowly  back,  looking 
at  him  and  then  at  each  other  in  silence,  as  in  wonder 
and  fear  at  what  they  saw.  He  took  no  notice  of 
what  was  passing,  but  seemed  to  be  gazing  on  some- 
thing terrible  which  none  saw  but  he.  The  dancing 
had  stopped,  and  a  mysterious  silence  spread  like  a 
shadow  over  that  part  of  the  room.  Esther  spoke  in  a 
clear,  gay  tone  to  some  one  by  her.  The  sound  struck 
his  ear ;  he  started  forward,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the 
floor.  —  "  Ha !  are  ye  there  ?  "  he  muttered.  —  Presently 
a  change  seemed  taking  place  in  him,  and  he  looked 
round,  as  if  asking  where  he  was. 

Mr.  Waring,  who  observed  that  something  unusual 
had  happened,  went  that  way,  and  found  Paul  stand- 
ing alone,  his  eyes  wandering,  his  body  trembling,  his 
lips  white,  and  the  sweat  standing  in  big  drops  on 
his  broad,  pale  forehead.  Seizing  Paul  by  the  arm,  as 
he  called  him  by  name,  and  shaking  him  to  rouse 
him,  Paul  started,  giving  the  old  gentleman  a  look  of 
amazement.  — "  What  mean  ye,  what 's  the  matter, 
that  you  handle  me  thus  ?  Ha,  ha  I  —  I  did  not  know 
you,  old  man.  Your  daughter  's  fair  and  honest,  is  she 
not  ?  And  loves  her  husband  truly,  ah,  truly,  does  she 
not  ?  for  she  herself  told  him  so." 

"  This  pent  atmosphere  has  overcome  him,"  cried 
Mr.  Waring ;  "  he  's  unused  to  it."  And  he  turned 
Paul,  to  lead  him  into  the  open  air.  Paul  looked  at 
him,  as  if  to  ask  what  he  was  doing,  and  then  suffered 
himself  to  be  led  out  of  the  room.  He  took,  without 
seeming  conscious  of  it,  what  Mr.  Waring  gave  him ; 
and  they  walked  to  an  outer  door. 


PAUL    FELTON.  327 

"  This  nigliT  air  it;  cold,"  ssaid  Paul,  .shmlderiug. 

"  Cold  ? "  asked  the  old  gentleman,  .surprised.  He 
felt  of  Paul's  hand  and  forehead ;  it  was  like  touching 
the  dead. 

"  You  are  ill,  quite  ill,  Mr.  Felton  ;  you  must  go 
home.     Let  me  find  Esther." 

"  I  've  found  her  out  before  you,  old  man.  —  Stay," 
said  he,  in  an  eager  whisper,  seizing  Mr.  Waring  by 
the  arm,  and  looking  close  in  his  face ;  "  the  net 's  nigh 
set  which  is  to  catch  that  bird ;  don't  scare  her." 

"  This  will  never  do  ;  you  must  go  home  with  me, 
then.     Your  state  is  worse  than  you  are  aware." 

"  No,  in  faith,  it  is  not,"  said  Paul,  bitterly.  ''  It 
was ;  but  I  know  the  worst  now.  —  Let  us  to  the 
room ;  the  fit 's  over,  and  I  'm  well  again." 

"  Not  well,  I  fear,"  said  Mr  Waring. 

"  Yes,  quite  well,  mind  and  body  both,"  replied 
Paul,  drawing  himself  up ;  "  and  I  'm  calm,  quite 
calm."  lie  turned,  and  leaving  the  old  gentleman  at 
the  door,  walked  into  the  room  as  composedly  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  Those  who  had  seen  him 
supposed  that  the  close,  hot  air  had  oppressed  his 
brain,  and  thought  nothing  more  of  the  matter.  Mr. 
Waring  remembered  his  mysterious  words,  and  was 
alarmed  ;  for  he  had  some  little  insight  into  the  struc- 
ture of  Paul's  mind. 

Esther,  who  had  heard  nothing  of  what  had  i)assed, 
had  mingled  with  the  crowd  at  a  distant  part  of  the 
room;  but  Paul  soon  discovered  where  she  was;  for 
she  was  carrying  on  a  lively  conversation  with  those 
round  her.  He  drew  near  enough  to  iiear  her  happy 
voice,  and  the  clever,  good-natured  bandying  of  words. 
Other  thoughts  and  feelings  lilird  his  soul.  He  stood 
amid  the  light  and  ratll<,"  like  some  black,  solid  body, 


328  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

that  nothing  penetrated.  Mysterious  shapes,  which 
told  him  in  part  of  something  dreadful,  were  wander- 
ing through  his  mind  with  a  fearful,  shadow-like  still- 
ness ;  the  scene  directly  before  him  seemed  set  off  at 
an  undefined  distance  ;  and  his  lonely  spirit  held  its 
own  musings,  known  to  none  of  earth. 

"  Can  we  love,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  and  one  be 
sad,  and  yet  no  secret  sympathy  tell  the  other  of  it  ? 
Were  Esther  cast  down,  though  I  saw  her  not,  the 
spirits  that  are  about  us,  and  know  what  is  in  our 
hearts,  would  whisper  it  to  me.  —  Idiot !  boy !  Talk 
I  of  love  ?  Is  not  her  heart  another's  ?  Ere  I  knew  her, 
it  was  his.  In  mind,  —  in  mind  she  's  his  now,  —  at 
this  instant,  his."  —  He  moved  quicldy  from  the  place 
he  was  in ;  and  taking  his  stand  just  outside  the  circle, 
and  opposite  Esther,  stood  watching  her,  without  being 
seen.  Frank  was  by  her  side,  playing  with  her  fan,  — 
"  What,  so  constant ! "  said  Paul  to  himself.  "  Could 
neither  seas  nor  travel  cure  you  ?  But  I  have  that  that 
will.  Yet  ye  're  a  faithful  pair ;  and  it  would  break 
two  loving  hearts.  No,  no,  I  '11  not  be  cruel.  — Why 
talk  I  of  you,  ye  coxcomb  ?  —  What  are  you  to  me  ? 
'T  is  she!  'tis  she!  and  I'll  see  w^hat 's  in  that  heart, 
though  I  tear  it  from  her." 

"  And  where  is  Mr.  Felton  to-night,  that  he  is  not 
with  us  ? "  asked  one.  — "  O,  at  home,  no  doubt," 
answered  a  peevish  maiden.  "  He  loves  no  plays,  as 
thou  dost,  Antony,"  said  she,  maliciously,  looking  first 
at  Frank  and  then  at  Esther.  Esther  could  not  but 
observe  her  significant  manner;  and  innocent  as  her 
heart  was  of  all  improper  thoughts,  she  felt  pained  and 
embarrassed.  Paul  watched  the  changes  of  her  counte- 
nance. —  "  And  is  her  name  so  stale  already  ?  Do  they 
tell  her  to  her  very  teeth  that  she  's  a ?  "  —  There 


TALL    FELTON.  329 

was  a  sliort  pause.  Esther  was  looking  beyond  the 
circle  to  relieve  herself  of  the  siglit  of  those  immediate- 
ly about  her,  when  her  eyes  suddenly  met  those  of 
Paul,  which  were  iixed  on  her  with  a  deadly  look.  She 
started  back  with  a  shriek.  There  was  a  general  alarm, 
and  Paul  pressed  in  toward  her.  "  What's  the  matter? 
What  was  it  ?  "  cried  they  all  at  once.  "  I  know  not," 
said  Esther,  trying  to  recover  herself.  "'T  was  a  — 
a  spider  I  —  some  horrid  creature  on  me  I  " 

"  Ugly  things  I "  sharply  whispered  Paul  to  her,  as  he 
half  supported  her,  —  "  that  lie  hid  in  corners,  with 
meshes  spread  for  silly  flies.  Beware,  for  they  draw 
the  blood,  and  leave  their  prey  hanging  for  the  common 
eye."  Esther  shuddered  at  his  words,  as  she  heard  his 
breath  come  hard  from  suppressed  passion.  She  near- 
ly sank  to  the  floor,  confounded,  mortified,  and  afraid. 
Never  had  Paul  looked  on  her  so  before.  She  had 
seen  hate,  and  revenge,  and  triumph,  in  his  eye.  Then, 
lest  those  about  her  should  suppose  the  consciousness 
of  detected,  guilty  thoughts  had  overcome  her,  —  it 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  "  I  'm  ill.  Take  me 
away,"  she  cried,  in  an  imploring  tone.  Frank  came 
eagerly  forward.  "  Not  you,  not  you  I "  she  said,  im- 
patiently, waving  him  back,  while  Paul  supported  her 
in  his  arms,  his  eyes  resting  on  her  pale,  sorrowful 
countenance. 

"  Where  's  my  child  ?  "  cried  her  father,  rushing  for- 
ward, as  Paul  was  bearing  her  to  their  carriage. 

"  Safe  with  her  husband,"  answered  Paul,  in  a  firm, 
but  gentle  voice.  The  old  gentleman  looked  up  at 
him,  and  saw  tears  in  his  large,  dark  eyes.  Taking 
out  his  cloak,  Paul  wrapped  it  carefully  about  Esther, 
and  placed  her  in  the  carriage. 

*'  Will  you  go  with  us,  Sir  ?  "  said  Paul,  respectfully. 
•28' 


330  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Mr.  Waring  put  his  foot  upon  the  step.  "  I  had  better 
not,"  thought  he,  and  drew  back.  Esther  observed 
her  father's  hesitation,  and  putting  out  her  hand  to 
him,  said,  with  a  forced  smile,  "  I  shall  be  quite  well 
presently.     Good  night.  Sir." 

She  sat  silent  as  they  drove  homeward.  She  had 
not  half  surmised  the  character  of  Paul's  thoughts. 
It  was  humbling  enough  to  her  that  her  husband 
should  have  heard  such  insinuations  against  her,  and 
should  have  looked  as  if  some  impropriety  or  triflling 
in  her  conduct  had  laid  her  open  to  the  slants  of  the 
malignant.  "  He  it  is  that  was  insulted,"  thought  she  ; 
"  and  it  is  I  who  subjected  him  to  it,  and  left  no  way 
of  revenge  to  his  proud  spirit."  She  looked  timidly  at 
him.  He  was  leaning  bareheaded  out  of  the  carriage 
window.  There  was  no  longer  any  anger  in  his  coun- 
tenance ;  but  it  told  of  heart-sickness  and  of  pity  for 
the  faults  of  those  we  love.  "  Paul,"  she  said ;  but 
could  not  go  on.  He  appeared  not  to  notice  her,  but, 
after  a  while,  asked,  —  still  looking  on  the  trees  play- 
ing in  the  breeze  and  moonshine,  — "  What  were  you 
about  saying,  Esther  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  only  that  I  fear  the  change  to 
this  damp  air  may  be  dangerous  to  you." 

"  Never  fear  that ;  there 's  a  fever  here,"  said  he, 
striking  his  forehead  rapidly  with  his  fingers,  "  that 
must  be  cooled  quickly,  or  't  will  sear  the  brain  up." 

They  drove  on,  Paul  sitting  as  before.  "  Have  ye 
no  sense  of  your  glad  motions  ? "  said  he,  as  he  still 
looked  out  on  the  trees.  "  Can  ye  be  so  innocent 
and  look  so  gay,  and  yet  feel  no  joy  ?  Sure,  ye  have 
your  delights  unto  you,  and  the  morning  sun  shall  take 
you  in  them  fresher  than  when  he  left  you.  Blessed 
creations  of  a  kind  Father,  ye  know  not  sin  or  sorrow ; 


VAll-    FELTOX.  331 

bur  man  lies  down  and  rises  to  them  both."  —  E.sther 
could  bear  this  no  longt-r.  "  My  husband,"  she  sobbed 
out,  as  she  sank  upon  his  bosom,  "  O,  take  me  to  you, 
and  bless  me  witii  them ;  for  I,  too,  am  innocent, 
tliough  not  as  pure  as  they  are."  —  He  folded  her  in  his 
arms  as  tenderly  as  a  father  would  a  lost  child  returned, 
and  she  felt  a  tear  drop  on  her  forehead. 

"  You  need  rest,  my  love,"  said  he,  kindly,  as  he 
led  her  into  the  house.  She  turned  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  There  is  no  rest  for  me,  Paul,  when  I  have  broken 
yours,  though  I  never  meant  it." 

'•  The  whirlwind  is  gone  over.  You  see  me  calm, 
now." 

"  Calm  and  fond,  but  not  happy,  Paul.  I  never 
thought  to  live  to  grieve  you." 

''  Our  griefs  are  mostly  of  our  own  creation,  Esther ; 
and  so  may  mine  be.  I  '11  call  myself  to  count  for 
them,  while  you  go  sleep.  To-morrow  all  will  be  well. 
Good  night." 

"  '  Timocent,  though  not  as  pure  as  they  are  '  ?  Said 
^lii'  not  so?  As  yet  she  has  sinned  in  mind  only. — 
Body  and  soul  not  both  bound  over  to  hell  yet.  Con- 
science, or  fear,  I  know  not  which,  —  both?  —  holds  her 
still.  Did  she  not  wave  him  back,  as  if  she  dared  not 
trust  herself?  And  speaks  jiot  that  conceived  guilt? 
And  did  they  not  twit  her  of  it  ?  All  of  them  to  hear  it, 
and  I,  her  husband,  standing  by  I  And  when  she  saw 
me,  O,  shame  I  She  confessed  it  all,  all.  —  Down,  down, 
ve  thoughts,  that  rise  like  fiends  within  me,  —  tempt 
UK-  not,  —  drive  me  not  mad  I  "  He  rushed  wildly  iVoni 
the  room,  as  if  pursued  by  spectres. 

As  he  hurried  through  llic  passage  to  his  study,  his 
foot  caught   in  tin-  ni:.'   oji   which    Abel  was  sleeping. 


332  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

He  started  back,  as  if  the  powers  of  darkness  had 
crossed  him.  "  Have  ye  snared  me,  then  ?  Is  there 
no  way  left  me  ?  "  Abel  lay  with  his  limbs  drawn  uj), 
and  the  muscles  of  his  face  distorted  as  by  some  sharp 
pain.  Every  now  and  then  his  mouth  drew  convul- 
sively, and  he  uttered  broken,  weak  cries,  as  if  dream- 
ing that  some  one  was  tormenting  him.  As  Paul 
looked  on  his  shrunken  body  and  ghastly  face,  it  seem- 
ed like  the  carcass  of  a  wretch  "who  had  pined  to  death, 
and  into  which  some  imp  had  entered  as  his  place  of 
sin  and  torment.  "  Sent  to  make  me  a  victim  cursed 
and  abhorred  as  yourself  !  I  see  it  all,  and  yet  you  cling 
to  me  ;  and  I  cannot  shake  you  off !  "  He  raised  his 
lamp  to  get  a  more  distinct  view  of  the  object  before 
him.  The  light  flashed  upon  Abel.  As  he  opened 
his  eyes  on  Paul,  he  gave  a  shrill  cry,  hiding  his  face 
in  his  hands.  "  Not  yet,  not  yet !  "  begged  he,  twist- 
ing himself  round  till  on  his  knees.  "  One  more  day 
before  you  take  me  with  you!  The  deed's  not  done 
yet ;  I  cannot  go  till  that 's  —  that 's  done  !  " 

"And  has  the  soul's  working  so  changed  my  visage 
that  he  does  not  know  me  ?  Is  my  fate  fresh  writ  with 
a  mark  like  Cain's  upon  me  ?  —  Rouse  up  !  Whom  do 
you  take  me  for  ? "  —  At  the  sound  of  Paul's  voice, 
Abel  curled  down  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  thought  He  had  come  for  me ;  for  They  've  told 
me  He  would  come  ;  and  yet  it  could  not  be  now  ;  for 
They  have  been  whispering  me  all  night  long  that  I 
must  do  it  before  I  went." 

u  It  ?  _  What  ?  "  asked  Paul,  impetuously.  "  Art 
mad?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Sir ;  I  don't  know.  It  is  some- 
thing dreadful,  that  I  'm  afraid  to  do ;  and  yet  I  must. 
And  then,  then  I  'm  lost !  " 


PAUL.    FELTON.  333 

"  And  quickly,  for  you  're  about  it  now,  though  you 
know  it  nor.  You're  here,  —  within  uio.  Dare  you 
look  on  him  you  're  blasting  ?  " 

"  I  'ni  gone  I  I  'm  gone  I  "  shrieked  Abel,  clinging 
to  Paul's  feet.  "  Help  me,  save  me  I "  —  A  K)atliing 
hate  entered  Paul.  His  teeth  set,  and  his  foot  drew 
up,  as  if  he  would  have  crushed  the  boy.  Abel's  hold 
relaxed,  and  he  lay  panting  and  exhausted.  Paul 
watched  him  till  his  breathing  became  freer.  —  "Up, 
and  follow  me.     I  '11  know  the  worst  that  waits  me." 

Violent  passions  and  dreadful  thoughts  had  now  ob- 
tained such  a  mastery  over  Paul,  that  they  came  and 
went  like  powers  independent  of  his  will ;  and  he  felt 
himself  as  a  creature  lying  at  their  mercy.  He  prayed 
to  them  to  spare  him,  as  if  they  had  been  beings  that 
could  enter  him,  and  move  about  him,  and  torment  him, 
as  they  would.  They  took  shadowy  forms  and  wild 
motions,  becoming  dimly  visible  to  his  mind's  eye.  — 
"  If  I  'm  lost,''  cried  he,  as  he  left  the  house,  "  if  ye 
have  made  me  a  child  of  hell,  speak  to  me  and  tell  me 
of  it.  If  cursed  deeds  must  be  done  of  me,  whip  me 
not  blind  and  bound  to  my  work,  but  let  me  know  it 
all,  and  what  I  am,  that  I  may  put  my  heart  into  the 
act,  and  share  your  devilish  triumph." 

Paul  pressed  on  so  fast,  that  Abel,  with  his  sham- 
bling gait,  could  hardly  keep  up  with  him.  The  east- 
ern horizon  was  shut  in;  and  when  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  rocky  ridge,  the  moon,  which  was  just  setting, 
threw  its  light  over  the  multitude  of  its  grayish  broken 
points,  giving  to  its  whole  length  the  white  lustre  of  the 
milky-way. 

"It  seems  the  path  of  heaven,"  said  Paul  to  him- 
self, as  his  eye  glanced  oxer  ii,  '•  hut  it  tends  not  Ihith- 
er.     The  whole  earth  's  a  cheat,  and  II —  I   in  its  dupe. 


334  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Yet  I  '11  be  fooled  no  longer.  —  Yes ;  and  they  take 
angels'  shapes.  —  She  that  looks  as  if  made  to  be  an 
inhabitant  of  the  pure,  sacred  stars,  why  she, — she  that 
looks  all  innocence  in  her  sleep,  —  for  then  they  feign 
too,  —  whom  and  what  dreams  she  of  now?  And 
she  '11  wake  presently,  and  talk  to  her  pillow,  and  call  it 
soothingly  by  his  name,  and  fold  it  in  her  arms,  as  she 
does  me,  me,  —  and  fancy  it  him.  —  Tell  me,  tell  me, 
you  that  haunt  me,  is  it  not  so  ?  Can  you  not  give 
me  to  look  into  her  very  soul,  and  see  its  secret  work- 
ings, as  ye  see  mine?"  —  Abel  ti-embled  from  head 
to  foot  as  he  watched  Paul's  motions,  and  heard  his 
terrific  voice  without  understanding  what  it  was  he 
spoke  of. 

The  moon  was  down  and  the  sky  had  become 
overcast  when  they  began  to  wind  among  the  rocks. 
Though  Paul's  walks  had  lain  of  late  in  this  direction, 
he  was  not  enough  acquainted  with  the  passage  to  find 
his  way  through  it  in  the  dark.  Abel,  who  had  trav- 
ersed it  often  in  the  night,  alone  and  in  terrour,  now 
took  heart  at  having  some  one  with  him  at  such  an 
hour,  and  offered,  hesitatingly,  to  lead.  — "  The  boy 
winds  round  these  crags  with  the  speed  and  ease  of  a 
stream,"  said  Paul.  —  "  Not  so  fast,  Abel." 

"  Take  hold  of  the  root  which  shoots  out  over  your 
head.  Sir,  for  't  is  ticklish  work  getting  along  just 
here.  —  Do  you  feel  it,  Sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  hold,"  said  Paul. 

"  Let  yourself  gently  down  by  it.  Sir.  You  need  n't 
be  a  bit  afraid,  for  't  will  not  give  way ;  man  could  n't 
have  fastened  it  stronsrer." 

This  was  the  first  time  Abel  had  felt  his  power,  or 
had  been  of  consequence  to  any  one,  since  the  boys 
had  turned  him  out  from   their  games ;    and  it  gave 


TAIL    FKLTON.  335 

him  a  momentary  activity,  and  an  unsettled  sort  of  spirit, 
which  he  had  never  known  sinee  then.  He  had  been 
shunned  and  abhorred ;  and  lie  believed  himself  the 
victim  of  some  demoniac  Power.  To  have  another 
in  this  fearful  bondage  with  him,  as  Paul  had  intimat- 
ed, was  a  relief  from  his  dreadful  solitariness  in  his 
terrours  and  suHerings.  — "  And  he  said  that  it  was  I 
who  was  to  work  a  ciu-se  on  him,"  muttered  Abel.  "  It 
cannot  be,  surely,  that  such  a  thing  as  I  am  can  harm 
a  man  like  himi"— And  though  Abel  remembered 
Paul's  kindness,  and  that  this  was  to  seal  his  own 
doom  too,  yet  it  stirred  the  spirit  of  pride  within  him. 
—  "  What  are  you  muttering-  to  yourself,  there,  in  the 
dark,  or  whom  talk  you  with,  you  withered  WTetch  ?  "  — 
Abel  shook  in  every  joint  at  the  sound  of  Paul's  harsh 
voice. 

"  It  is  so  dreadfully  still  here,"  said  Abel, "  I  hear  noth- 
ing but  your  steps  behind  me ;  and  they  make  me 
start."  —  This  was  true;  for  notwithstanding  his  touch 
of  instant  pride,  his  terrours,  and  his  fear  of  Paul,  were 
as  g^eat  as  ever. 

"  Speak  louder,  then,"  said  Paul,  "  or  hold  your 
peace.     I  like  not  your  muttering;  it  bodes  no  good." 

"  It  may  bring  a  curse  to  you,  worse  than  that  on 
me,  if  a  worse  can  be,"  said  Abel  to  himself;  "but 
who  can  help  it  ?  " 

Day  broke  before  they  cleared  the  ridge ;  a  drizzling 
rain  came  on;  and  tiie  wind,  beginning  to  rise,  drove 
through  the  clefts  in  the  rocks,  with  sharp,  whistling 
sounds,  which  seemed  to  come  from  malignant  spirits 
of  the  air. 

'i'hey  had  scarcely  entered  the  wood,  when  the  storm 
became  furious;  and  the  trees,  swaying  and  beating 
with  their  branches  against  one  another,  seemed  pos- 


336  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

sessed  of  a  supernatural  madness,  and  engaged  in  wild 
conflict,  as  if  there  were  life  and  passion  in  them ;  and 
their  broken,  decayed  arms  groaned  like  things  in  tor- 
ment. The  terrour  of  these  sights  and  sounds  was  too 
much  for  poor  Abel ;  it  nearly  crazed  him ;  and  he  set 
up  a  shriek  that  pierced  through  the  noises  of  the 
storm.  It  startled  Paul ;  and  when  he  looked  at  him, 
the  boy's  face  was  of  a  ghostly  whiteness.  The  rain 
had  drenched  him  to  the  skin ;  his  clothes  clung  to  his 
lean  body,  that  shook  as  if  it  would  come  apart ;  his 
eyes  flew  wildly,  and  his  teeth  chattered  against  each 
other.  The  fears  and  torture  of  his  mind  gave  some- 
thing unearthly  to  his  look,  that  made  Paul  start  back, 
"  Abel,  —  boy,  —  fiend,  —  speak  I  What  has  seized 
you  ?  " 

"  They  told  me  so !  I  've  done  it !  I  led  the  way 
for  you !  They  're  coming,  they  're  coming !  We  're 
lost!" 

"  Peace,  fool ! "  said  Paul,  trying  to  shake  off  the 
power  he  felt  Abel  gaining  over  him,  "  and  fmd  us  a 
shelter  if  you  can." 

"  There  's  only  the  hut,"  said  Abel,  "  and  I  would  n't 
go  into  that  if  it  rained  fire." 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"  I  once  felt  that  it  was  for  me  to  go,  and  I  went  so 
near  as  to  see  in  at  the  door.  And  I  saw  something  in 
the  hut,  —  it  was  not  a  man,  for  it  flitted  by  the  open- 
ing just  like  a  shadow ;  and  I  heard  two  muttering 
something  to  one  another  ;  it  Avas  n't  like  other  sounds; 
for  as  soon  as  I  heard  it,  it  made  me  stop  my  ears.  I 
could  n't  stay  any  longer,  and  I  ran  till  I  cleared  the 
wood.  —  O,  't  is  His  biding-place,  when  He  comes  to 
the  wood ! " 

"And  is  it  of  His  own  building?"  asked  Paul, 
sarcasticallv. 


r.VLL    FKLTO.N.  337 

"  No,"  answered  Abel ;  "  't  was  bnilt  by  the  two 
wood-catter?; ;  and  one  of  them  came  to  a  bloody  end  ; 
and  thev  say  the  other  died  the  same  nii2;ht,  foaming 
at  the  month  like  one  possessed.  —  There  it  is,"  said 
he,  almost  breathless,  as  he  crouched  down,  and  point- 
ed at  the  hut  under  the  trees.  —  "Do  not  go,  Sir," 
he  said,  catching  hold  of  the  skirts  of  Paul's  coat ; 
''I've  never  dared  go  nigher  since." — "Let  loose, 
boy  I  "cried  Paul,  striking  Abel's  hand  from  his  coat; 
'•  I  '11  not  be  fooled  with."  —  Abel,  alarmed  at  being  left 
alone,  crawled  after  Paul,  as  far  as  he  dared  go ;  then, 
taking  hold  of  him  once  more,  made  a  supplicating 
motion  to  him  to  stop ;  he  was  afraid  to  speak.  Paul 
pnslied  on  without  regarding  him. 

The  hut  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  sand-bank  that  was 
kept  up  by  a  large  pine,  whose  roots  and  fibres,  lying 
partly  bare,  looked  like  some  giant  spider  that  had  half 
buried  himself  in  the  sand.  On  the  right  of  the  hut 
was  a  patch  of  broken  ground,  in  which  were  still 
standing  a  few"  straggling,  dried  stalks  of  Indian  corn  ; 
and  from  two  dead  trees  hung  knotted  pieces  of  broken 
line,  which  had  formerly  served  for  a  clothes-line.  The 
hnt  was  built  of  half-trimmed  trunks  of  trees  laid  on 
each  other,  crossing  at  the  four  corners,  and  running 
out  at  unequal  lengths,  the  chinks  partly  filled  in  with 
sods  and  moss.  The  door,  which  lay  on  the  floor, 
was  of  twisted  boughs ;  and  the  roof,  of  the  same, 
was  caved  in,  and  Ijut  partly  kept  out  the  sun  and 
rain. 

As  Pavil  drew  near  the  entrance,  he  stopped,  though 
the  wind  just  tlnm  came  in  a  heavy  gnst,  and  the  rain 
fell  like  a  flood.  It  was  not  a  dread  of  wliat  he  might 
see  within;  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  tjiere  was  a 
spell  round  him,  drawing  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  its 

VOL.  1.  29 


! 


338 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


centre ;  and  he  felt  the  hand  ol'  an  invisible  power 
upon  him.  As  he  stepped  into  the  hut,  a  chill  ran 
over  him,  and  his  eyes  shut  involuntarily.  Abel 
watched  him  eagerly  ;  and  as  he  saw  him  enter,  tossed 
his  arms  wildly,  shouting,  "  Gone,  gone  I  They  '11  have 
me,  too, — they're  coming,  they're  coming!"  —  and 
threw  himself  on  his  face,  to  the  ground. 

Driven  from  home  by  his  maddening  passions,  a  per- 
verse satisfaction  in  self-tortiue  had  taken  possession  of 
Paul ;  and  his  mind  so  hungered  for  more  excitement, 
that  it  craved  to  make  certain  all  which  its  jealousy 
and  superstition  had  imaged.  He  had  walked  on,  * 
lost  in  this  fearful  riot,  and  taking  a  kind  of  crazed  joy 
in  his  bewildered  state ;  Esther's  love  for  him,  which  he 
at  times  thought,  past  doubt,  feigned,  the  gloom  of  the 
hour,  and  the  driving  storm,  with  its  confused  motions 
and  sounds,  made  an  uproar  of  the  mind  which  drove 
out  all  settled  purpose  or  thought. 

The  stillness  of  the  place  into  which  he  had  now 
entered,  where  was  heard  nothing  but  the  slow,  regular 
dripping  of  the  rain  from  the  broken  roof  upon  the 
hard-trod  floor;  the  lowered  and  distant  sound  of  the 
storm  without ;  the  sudden  change  from  the  whirl  and 
swaying  of  the  trees  to  the  steady  walls  of  the  build- 
ing, put  a  stop  to  the  workings  of  his  brain,  and  he 
gradually  fell  into  a  stupor. 

When  Abel  began  to  recover,  he  could  scarcely  raise 
himself  from  the  ground.  He  looked  round,  but  could 
see  nothing  of  Paul.  —  "  They  have  bound  us  together; 
and  something  is  drawing  me  toward  him.  There  is 
no  help  for  me ;  I  must  go  where  he  goes."  —  As  he 
was  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  hut,  he  seemed  to 
struggle  and  hang  back,  as  if  pushed  on  against  his 
will.     At  last  he  reached  the  door-way,  and,  clinging 


PAUL  KELTON.  339 

to  its  bide  with  a  desperate  hold,  as  if  not  to  be  forced 
in,  put  his  liead  fonvard  a  little,  casting  a  hasty  glance 
into  tlic  building.  — "  Tliere  he  is,  and  alive  I"  he 
breatiied  out. 

Paul's  stupor  was  now  begiiniing  to  leave  hiui ; 
ills  recollection  was  returning ;  and  what  had  passed 
came  back  slowly  and  at  intervals.  There  was  some- 
thing he  had  said  to  Esther  before  leaving  home,  —  he 
could  not  tell  what;  then  his  gazing  after  her  as  she 
drove  from  the  house  ;  then  something  of  Abel ;  and 
he  sprang  from  the  ground  as  if  feeling  the  boy's  touch 
again  about  his  knees ;  then  the  ball-room,  and  a  mul- 
titude of  voices,  and  all  talking  of  his  wife.  Suddenly 
she  appeared  darting  by  him ;  and  Frank  was  there. 
Then  came  his  agony  and  tortures  again.  All  return- 
ed upon  him  as  in  the  confusion  of  a  horrible  trance. 
Presently  the  hut  seemed  to  enlarge,  and  the  walls  to 
rock ;  and  shadows  of  those  he  knew,  and  of  terrible 
beings  he  had  never  seen  before,  were  flitting  round 
him,  and  mocking  at  him.  His  own  substantial  form 
seemed  to  him  undergoing  a  change,  and  taking  the 
shape  and  substance  of  the  accursed  ones  at  which  he 
looked.  As  he  felt  the  change  going  on,  he  tried  to 
utter  a  cry,  but  he  could  not  make  a  sound,  or  move  a 
limb.  The  ground  under  him  rocked  and  pitched  ;  it 
grew  darker  and  darker,  till  everything  became  vision- 
ary ;  and  he  thought  himself  surrounded  by  spirits,  and 
ill  the  mansions  of  the  damned.  Something  like  a 
(if'(|),  black  cloud  began  to  gather  gi-adnally  round  liim. 
Tlic  gigantic  sfrncture,  with  its  tall,  tcrriiic  arches, 
liinicd  slowly  into  darkness,  and  the  sj)irits  within 
disappean-d,  one  alter  anotin-r,  till,  as  the  ends  of  the 
cIoikI  met  and  closed,  he  saw  the  last  of  them  lookiiiir 
at  him  with  an  inlcrnal  laugh  in  his  undi'iined  visage. 


340  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Abel  stood  speechless,  watching  him.  His  con- 
sciousness was  now  leaving  him ;  his  head  began  to 
s\\dm;  he  reeled,  and  as  his  hand  swept  down  the 
side  of  the  hut,  while  trying  to  save  himself,  it  struck 
against  the  handle  of  a  rusty  knife  that  had  been  left 
sticking  loosely  between  the  logs.  —  "  Let  go,  let  go ! " 
shrieked  Abel ;  "  there  's  blood  on  't  I  —  't  is  cursed,  't  is 
cursed ! "  —  As  Paul  swung  round,  with  the  knife  in  his 
hand,  Abel  sprang  from  the  door  with  a  shrill  cry,  and 
Paul  sank  on  the  floor,  muttering  to  himself,  "  "What 
said  They  ?  " 

When  he  began  to  come  to  himself  a  little,  he  was 
still  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  back  against  the  wall. 
His  senses  were  yet  confused.  He  thought  he  saw  his 
wife  near  him  and  a  bloody  knife  by  his  side.  After 
sitting  a  little  longer,  his  mind  gradually  gi-ew  clearer, 
and  at  last  he  felt  that  his  hand  held  something.  As 
his  eye  fell  on  it,  and  he  saw  what  it  was,  he  leaped 
upright,  with  a  savage  yell,  and  dashed  the  knife  from 
him  as  if  it  had  been  an  asp  stinging  him.  He  stood 
with  his  bloodshot  eyes  fastened  on  it,  his  hands 
spread,  and  his  body  shrunk  up  with  horrour.  —  "  Forged 
in  hell !  And  for  me,  for  me ! "  he  screamed,  as  he 
sprang  forward,  and  seized  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  — 
"  Damned  pledge  of  the  league  that  binds  us !  "  he  cried, 
holding  it  up  and  glaring  wildly  on  it.  "  And  yet  a 
voice  did  warn  me,  —  of  what,  I  know  not.  —  Which 
of  you  put  it  in  this  hand  ?  —  Speak,  —  let  me  look  on 
you  !  —  D'  ye  hear  me,  and  will  not  answer  ?  —  Nay, 
nay,  what  needs  it  ?  This  tells  me,  though  it  speaks 
not.  I  know  your  promptings  now,"  he  said,  folding 
his  arms  deliberately ;  "  your  work  must  be  done,  and 
I  am  doomed  to  it." 

There  was  an  awful  calmness  in  his  voice  and  bear- 


I'AIL    FELTOX.  341 

ing  as  lie  stood.  His  inind  at  last  rollocl  back  upon 
the  past.  As  the  tliought  of  Esther's  love  lor  Frank 
crossed  him,  he  clutched  the  knife  hard.  —  Then  he 
heard  her  call  out,  "  Paul  I "  And  she  looked  all  truth 
and  fondness.  —  '*  O,  hang  \vitli  your  arms  about  my 
Meek  thus,  Esther,  and  I'll  never  again  doubt  you  I  — 
Stand  oti'  a  little.  Is  not  my  eye  murderous  ?  —  Have 
a  care ;  touch  not  this  bloody  hand.  —  Come  to  me,  my 
wife ;  I  '11  not  believe  it ;  't  is  false ;  they  lie,  all  lie,  all ! 
—  O,  spare  me,  spare  me  I"  he  groaned  out,  throwing 
himself  down  and  beatina:  the  en-ound  madly  with  his 
arms.  "  Let  her  die,  if  ye  've  ordained  it  so,  bvit  not  by 
me,  not  by  me  I  "  —  His  limbs  gradually  relaxed,  and  he 
lay  silent.  The  fit  of  agony  had  passed.  He  rose 
slowly  up,  putting  the  knife  into  his  bosom.  "  'T  is  in 
vain,  all  in  vain.  I  yield  me  to  you.  Be  it  when  you 
will ! " 

He  quitted  the  hut.  The  storm  had  passed  over ; 
and  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms  before  the  door-way, 
he  saw  the  sun  playing  in  checpiered  spots  under  the 
trees,  and  the  myriads  of  silver  rain-drops,  falling,  or 
quivering  on  the  leaves,  dazzled  his  sight. —  "'Twas 
your  accursed  power  that  raised  the  storm  and  whirl- 
wind, when  you  made  a  man  a  child  of  hell;  your  work 
is  done,  and  now  they're  laid  again.'' —  He  turned  his 
melancholy  eye  upward.  The  clouds  lay  like  snow- 
drifts along  the  air,  setting  off  and  deepening  the  clear 
blue  sky.  —  "  You  bright  messengers  from  another 
world,  ye  bring  not  glad  tidings  to  me  now,  as  once  ye 
did ;  your  holy  influences  no  more  fall  on  me.  You 
pass  nie  by  in  silence  ;  yet  once  you  had  a  voice  for 
me.  You  go  to  tell  of  hope,  and  speak  promises  to  the 
pure  in  heart.  Sin  holds  no  communion  with  you. 
Once,  all  this  beauty  had  Ixcn  deep  joy  to  mc  ;  but 
29' 


342  THE    IDLE    iMAN. 

now,  it  lies  upon  the  eye,  yet  enters  not  this  bosom. 
No,  no,  now  another  sense  is  here,  and  other  sights. 
Tormenting  llaraes,  like  those  I  'm  soon  to  go  to,  shoot 
up,  and  burn  me,  —  burn  me.  And  this  narrow  body 
seems  a  dark,  deep  cavern.  And  the  eye  turns  inward ; 
and  w^hat  sees  it  there  ?  Spirits,  uncouth  things,  sport- 
ing and  fighting  there.  Yes,  't  is  like  the  place  you 
just  now  took  me  to,  when  you  made  me  yom's,  and 
put  upon  me  this  deed  of  horrour.  Let  me  do  it 
quickly,  quickly.  Make  me  not  walk  longer  in  all  this 
brightness,  a  fiend  of  darkness.  Hide  me  from  it,  and 
I  '11  — -I  'II  come  to  you." 

He  soon  grew  calm  again.  The  look  of  despair 
passed  off,  and  a  mysterious  gloom,  and  fixed,  dreadful 
purpose,  seemed  to  settle  on  him.  He  walked  forward. 
As  he  drew  near  Abel,  who  was  sitting  where  he  left 
him,  the  boy  quaked  and  looked  aghast  at  him,  as  at 
one  who  had  just  risen  out  of  the  abode  of  evil  spirits. 
And  well  he  might,  for  there  was  a  visionary  horrour 
mingled  with  desperate  resoluteness  in  his  face,  which 
would  have  startled  a  firm  man  to  have  looked  on. 
He  turned  his  dark  eye  slowly  down  on  Abel,  witliout 
speaking,  and  then  moved  on.  The  boy  felt  as  if  all 
strength  went  out  of  him.  He  got  up  with  difficulty, 
and  followed  with  a  watchful  look,  and  at  a  greater  dis- 
tance than  usual.  He  could  scarcely  draw  his  breath  ; 
and  when  Paul's  pace  slackened  a  little,  now  and  then, 
as  he  was  lost  in  thought,  Abel  would  stop,  fearing  to 
be  any  nearer  to  him. 

When  they  at  length  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
Paul  stopped,  and  looked  down  upon  the  fields  and 
houses  which  lay  beyond  it.  Abel  retreated  a  little  ; 
yet  he  dared  not  run.  At  length  Paul  turned  on  him. 
He  shrunk  back  and  tried  to   look  another  way;  but 


HAIL    IKLTON. 


343 


Ills  eve  seemed  drawn  back  and  lasU'iied  upon  Paul's. 
He  writhed,  and  twisTed.  and  (•las[)ed  liis  hands, 
and  looked  in  Paul's  I'aee,  as  il  imploring  to  be 
spared.  Still  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  as  if  a  snake 
eharmed  him,  till  he  stood  elose  to  Paul's  side.  "  Think 
vou,  Abel,"  said  Paul  at  last,  raising  his  arm  and 
pointing  toward  the  houses,  "  that  the  storm  drove 
thither,  or  that  it  was  up  in  that  cursed  place  back 
yonder  only  ? "  To  hear  him  speak  once  more  was  like 
returning  life  to  Abel.  "I'm  afraid,"  said  he,  "I'm 
afraid,  but  I  can't  guess.  And  I  shall  never  know,"  he 
added,  tears  trickling  through  his  lashes  ;  "  for  not  a 
soul  that  I  should  ask  would  tell  me.  No  one  speaks 
to  Abel  but  you.  May  be  they  had  better  not,  for  I 
mi^ht  be  madt^  to  harm  them,  too.  —  Save  me  from 
it  I "  he  cried,  falling  on  his  knees  before  Paul.  "  You 
fed  me,  and  spoke  to  me.     O,  I  would  die  sooner  I  " 

"  'T  is  done  already ;  your  work  is  done,  and  mine 
is  to  come.  There  is  no  escape."  Abel  fell  like  one 
dead  at  Paul's  feet.  "  Poor  wretch  I  "  said  l^aul,  looking 
down  upon  him.  "  The  instrument  of  my  doom,  too. 
And  yd  I  w«)uld  nt)t  curse  you.  Twinned  with  me 
in  misery,  and  bound  to  crime  by  chains  that  can't 
be  broken,  I  '11  Icel  a  fellow's  kindness  for  you  while 
we  're  here.  What  's  to  come  beyond,  I  know  iu)1. 
And  is  it  us  alone  you  take  in  our  vices?  Or  are 
babes  and  innocents  all,  all  swept  into  your  toils, 
you   Powers  ?  " 

He  stoojied  down,  and,  raising  Abel,  set  him  with 
his  back  against  a  rock.  The  boy  opened  his  eves 
and  looked  round  him,  as  if  not  kndwinir  where  he 
was.  Paul  spoke  kindly  to  him,  and  when  lie  had 
a  little  recovered,  bade  him  take  coiid'ort,  and  then 
Vvi'iii     r»aek    to    get   water    loi     him         lie    reached    the 


344  THE    IDLE    MAX. 

place ;  and  tearing  some  haiiy  moss  from  the  rock 
the  water  trickled  over,  and  soaking  it  in  one  of  the 
little  hollows,  he  carried  it  in  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
When  Abel  saw  it,  he  gave  an  hysteric  laugh,  and 
seizing  it,  sucked  it  greedily  through  his  long  teeth. 

"  Can  you  walk  now,  Abel  ?  " 

"  I  'm  quite  well  again,"  answered  he,  looking  up  at 
Paul,  as  if  to  thank  him. 

When  they  had  reached  the  clump  of  locusts,  Paul 
said  to  him,  "  You  must  leave  me,  now.  You  must 
be  faint  for  want  of  food '' ;  and  he  gave  Abel  a  piece 
of  money.  Abel  looked  at  the  money,  and  then  at 
Paul.  "  And  what  good  will  this  do  me  ?  Nobody 
will  sell  to  me." 

"  Not  sell  to  you,  boy !  Why,  that  buys  souls  daily  ! 
Men  and  women  sell  themselves  to  one  another  for 
that,  and  swear  before  God  't  is  all  for  love.  Did  you 
go  to  them,  child,  tailed  and  clawed  like  the  devil  him- 
self, they  'd  feed  you  for  that,  though  't  would  be  your 
last  hour  else."  Abel  seemed  comforted  at  this  ;  and, 
putting  the  money  into  his  pocket  as  he  thanked  Paul, 
took  his  way  to  the  village.  Paul  followed  the  path 
that  led  home. 

When  he  turned  a  little  wood,  and  the  house  ap- 
peared in  sight,  he  stopped.  A  sense  of  guilt  and  fear 
checked  him  ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  he  had  reso- 
lution enough  to  go  on.  "  What !  shall  I  be  driven 
from  my  own  door  like  a  beast  of  prey !  They  know 
me  not,  nor  the  work  I  am  ordained  to.  Why  does 
my  very  own  make  me  tremble  thus  ?  " 

It  was  a  warm,  sunshiny  noon  when  he  reached  the 
house,  and  there  was  that  stillness  round,  which,  in 
the  country,  sometimes  pervades  nature  like  a  diffused 
spiritual  presence.     Paul  felt  as  if  this  brightness  and 


PAUL  FELTON.  345 

quiet  betrayed  him.  Everything  he  passed  by  seemed 
to  have  a  kno\vledge  of  him,  and  sti-ange  eyes  were 
on  him.  He  hardly  dared  look  ronnd.  He  cast  his 
eyes  up  at  his  wile's  window.  The  shutters  were 
closed.  "  Sleeps  yet  I  "  said  he  ;  "  that  is  well  I  "  and 
he  entered  the  house  with  more  composure. 

He  went  with  a  cautious  step  to  his  own  room,  and 
locked  himself  in.  As  he  passed  near  his  glass,  he 
started  back.  "  Have  they  not  only  changed  my  soul," 
cried  he,  "  but  transformed  this  body,  too,  that  the 
world  may  know  and  shun  me  ?  Is  the  deed  writ  here, 
—  here  on  this  forehead,  that  men  may  read  it  when 
they  look  on  me?  —  I'll  not  live  on,  the  dread  and 
mock  of  mortals.  Now  I  '11  do  it,  —  now,  while  she 
sleeps,  and  end  it.  Then  take  me  to  you,  fit  for  the 
hell  I  go  to."  His  eyes  gleamed  fire  as  he  clinched 
the  knife  in  his  raised  hand,  as  if  about  to  strike  the 
blow.  At  the  sight  of  himself  again,  he  dropped  the 
knife  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  "  Take, 
take  that  vision  from  me,  that  tells  me  what  I  am,  and 
shall  be  I  O,  show  me  not  myself,  cursed  and  fallen  ! 
I'll  do  it;  but  blind  me  to  the  sense  of  what  I  am  and 
must  be."  He  liad  undergone  too  much  to  bear  it 
longer,  and  sinking  into  a  chair,  his  limbs  relaxed,  his 
eyes  grew  heavy,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Esther  waked  refreshed  ;  for  Paul's  ailectionate  tones 
and  kind  manner  when  she  lelt  him  c|uieted  her  spirit. 
When  shi-  in<pjired  for  her  husband,  the  servant  said  he 
saw  him  come  into  the  house,  mid  l)elieved  he  was 
in  his  room.  Esther  went  1o  the  door  and  knocked 
gently  ;  there  was  no  answer.  She  tried  to  open  it,  hut 
it  was  locked.  She  cajjrd  out,  "Paul!"  —  "is  the 
hour  come?"  trird  he,  starting  out  of  his  sleep.  "  1  'm 
ready  then";  aii(|   putting  his  hand   lo  his  bosom,  the 


346  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

knife  was  gone.  "  "Where  have  I  been  ?  "  said  he  to 
himself,  looking  round.  "  Was  't  all  a  dream  ?  Was 
there,  then,  no  instrument  of  murder  given  me  ?  And 
is  there  no  deed  of  death  on  my  hands?  —  She  's  not 
to  die,  then,  and  I  am  free  of  them !  "  he  shouted. 

"  Paul !  Paul ! "  called  out  Esther,  terrified  at  the 
sound,  "  let  me  come  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  you  may  come  safely  now.  I  '11  not 
harm  you ;  upon  my  life,  I  '11  not  harm  you,"  he  said 
partly  to  himself,  and  moving  towards  the  door.  As 
he  advanced,  his  eye  fell  on  the  knife,  as  it  lay  on  the 
floor.  His  blood  ran  cold,  and  a  sick  feeling  came 
over  him.  Then  sight  and  sense  left  him.  Esther 
listened ;  but  all  was  still.  —  "  He  's  dead,  he  's  dead ! " 
shrieked  she,  trying  to  force  the  door.  The  noise 
brought  him  to  himself  —  "Hush!  hush!"  he  whis- 
pered, picking  up  the  knife  with  a  shaking  hand,  and 
concealing  it  in  his  bosom ;  "  let  there  be  no  noise."  — 
He  stepped  slowly  and  softly  to  the  door,  and  opened 
it  cautiously.  He  raised  his  finger  in  sign  of  silence. 
— "  Hush  !  or  you  '11  rouse  them.  Do  not  tremble 
so  at  me.  There  is  no  danger  yet ;  the  hour  is  not 
come." 

Esther  entered  the  room.  As  Paul  took  her  hand, 
she  felt  his  cold  and  damp.  "  Paul,  my  husband,  what 
is  it  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  wild  and  lost  ?  Rouse 
yourself ;  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

"  Happened  ?  "  repeated  he  unconsciously.  He  stood 
a  little  while  silent  and  abstracted.  "  Did  you  ask 
what  has  happened  ?  "  Then  putting  his  mouth  close 
to  her  ear,  and  whispering  eagerly,  —  "  To  hear  it  would 
be  your  last.  What  's  seen  in  the  spirit  cannot  be 
spoken  to  flesh  and  blood."  —  She  shuddered,  his  voice 
sounded  so  unearthly. 


PAUL    FELTON.  347 

"Merciful  Heaven!  save  him,  save  liiiii  I  lot  him  not 
go  mad  I  Do  with  me  what  Thou  wilt,  but  spare  my 
husband  I  "  —  Her  prayer  passed  through  Paul's  dark 
and  Troubled  mind  like  the  light. 

"  Is  there  yet  a  Heavenly  Power?  And  arc  there 
holy  angels  to  guard  us  still  ?  The  fiends  have  not  all, 
then,  and  their  domain  fills  not  the  whole  air?  —  No, 
no,  't  is  not  all  dark  ;  there  's  light  beyond.  See  there, 
Esther,"  said  he,  seizing  her  arm,  as  he  pointed  eagerly 
upward ;  "  there  are  bright  forms,  dazzling  briglit,  mov- 
ing in  it.  Canst  see  them  ?  "  He  looked  as  if  more 
than  mortal  vision  was  given  to  him.  The  sense  of  all 
about  him  was  gone,  and  he  went  on  talking  to  him- 
self as  he  gazed.  "  There  they  are,  passing  away  till 
swallowed  uj)  in  the  very  brightness!  Now  they  come 
again,  hosts,  myriads,  and  with  the  speed  of  fire! 
The  darkness  and  the  evil  ones  are  flying,  —  they  are 
gone!  Now  the  light  gushes!  'T  is  all,  all  one  flood 
of  glory  round  me  I  I  "m  safe,  I  'm  safe,  Esther  !  "  he 
gasped  out,  as  he  fell  on  her  neck. 

"  O  my  WTctched,  lost  husband  I "  she  cried,  as  she 
folded  her  arms  round  him,  and  looked  upward  with 
streaming  eyes  ;  "  is  there  no  help  for  him  ?  Will  not 
Heaven  have  pity  on  him  ?  "  He  remained  silent  and 
motionless.  — "  O,  speak  to  me,  be  it  but  one  word!" 
.said  she,  raising  him  gently.  "  Look  at  me,  will  you 
not,  Paul?"  He  did  look,  but  it  was  as  upon  one 
he  did  not  know.  — "  Why  do  you  glare  upon  me  so? 
J)o  you  not  know  me,  Paul  ? —  Esther,  your  wife?" 

"  I  think, —  I  remember Yes,  't  is  all  clear  now. 

JJut  They  huNc  not  betrayed  nic  to  yoit  ?  Tluiy  've  not 
told  you  what  's  to  be  done  .'  Iklieve  them  not ;  they 
belie  me.  Did  1  not  just  now  tell  you  I  was  safe?  — 
And,  then,  no  harm  can  coine  to  you,  you  know." 


348  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

"  Harm !  Safe !  What  mean  you  ?  Do  not  keep 
me  in  this  ignorance.  By  the  love  you  bear  me,  tell 
me  what  it  is  that  shakes  your  reason  so." 

"  That  must  not  be  now.  I  serve  the  powers  of  the 
air.  When  you  're  a  spirit  in  heaven,  and  I  in  dark- 
ness, you  '11  know  all.  —  There !  They  flit,  like  shadows, 
in  the  light,  and  keep  the  sun  from  me ;  yet  you  are  in 
it.     That  tokens  what  is  to  be." 

He  paused.  His  wildness  left  him,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  musing.  At  last  he  spoke.  —  "  The  hour  is  coming, 
Esther,  — it  breathes  upon  me  now, — when  death  will 
part  us,  and  we  shall  never  meet  more,  never  more  I 
Thy  immortal  countenance  will  then  be  radiant  with 
holy  joy ;  but  I  shall  no  more  look  on  it,  and  thy  voice 
of  love  will  no  more  sound  for  me.  —  Weep  not  for 
me ;  it  can  avail  me  nothing ;  the  doom  is  on  me.  — 
Nay,  nay,  ask  me  not  what  I  mean.  The  book  in 
which  my  fate  is  written  is  sealed  to  you ;  you  may 
not  read  it.  —  I  must  be  alone  awhile,"  said  he,  open- 
ing the  door.  "  Do  not  linger  so.  The  time  is  com- 
ing when  you  would  fain  flee  from  me,  and  may  not. 
No  more  tears,  Esther,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands  in 
his,  as  she  looked  up  silently  in  his  face.  "  What  is 
this  world's  misery  to  those  who  look  for  rest  beyond 
it  ?  "  He  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  and,  turning 
back,  shut  the  door  after  her. 

When  Abel  came  to  the  village  street,  he  walked 
throaarh  it  with  more  confidence  than  he  had  done  for 
many  a  day ;  for  he  remembered  Paul's  last  words  to 
him,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  that  in  his  pocket  which 
would  find  him  friends  again.  When  he  reached  the 
shop  door  where  he  intended  buying  food,  it  was  near 
noon,  and  the  little  room  was  filled  with  the  wise  ones 
who  had  come  together  to  take  their  dram,  and  settle 


PAIL    FKl/rON.  349 

church  and  state.  He  stopped  at  tlie  door  and  looked 
anxiously  in,  beginning  to  feel  for  his  money;  for  he  no 
more  expected  to  gain  admittance  without  it  here,  than 
one  does  at  a  show.  lie  stepped  upon  the  door-stoiu^, 
and  began  jilaying  his  change  from  one  hand  to  the 
other,  k)oking  lirst  at  it  and  then  at  the  shopivcepcr. 

"Where  got  you  those  white-boys,  you  starveling? 
Come  in,  and  let  me  take  a  peep  at  them.  Is 't  hon- 
est money  ?  " 

"  I  came  honestly  by  it,"  said  Abel,  trembling,  and 
venturing  a  little  within  the  door. 

"  That 's  no  concern  of  mine,"  said  the  man.  "And 
many  a  glass  of  liquor  I  should  miss  the  selling  of, 
gentlemen,  if  none  but  fair  gains  bought  it." 

"  Wlio  have  you  here  ?  "  said  one,  setting  down  his 
mug,  wliicli  had  just  touched  his  lips,  and  moving  otl", 
as  Abel  sidled  up  to  the  counter.  — "  Why,  't  is  the 
cursed  boy  I     You  '11  not  take  his  money,  Sam ! " 

"  Will  I  not  ?  "  replied  Sam.  "  Hand  over  that  bit, 
and  tell  us  what  you  want.  I  hold  man  or  boy,  who 
has  money  in  his  purse,  to  be  every  inch  a  gentleman." 
—  Sam's  customers  began  to  draw  back.  As  some 
were  going  out,  he  called  after  tiiem. — "Stay,"  said 
he.  Throwing  the  piece  on  tiic  counter,  "and  hear  it 
ring.  There  's  music  for  you,  my  lads,  sweeter  than  a 
church-bell." 

"  Don't  take  it,  Sam,"  said  the  customer.  "  He  's 
sent;  and  it  will  fare  ill  with  you  if  you  have  dealings 
with  him." 

"  Not  take  it!  Why,  Mr.  Stitchcloth,  you  would  rig 
him  up  out  of  your  cabbagings  i'li  fo  be  tho.  Old  One's 
harlequin,  for  another  such  piece  as  this,"  said  Sam, 
letting  it  drop  throuL'h  the  lioh'  in  the  counter,  inlo  the 
drawer. — '•  There.  <lid  n'l  you  liear  thetn  wehouie  liim, 

vol..  I.  :{0 


350  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

the  bright  lads!  What  care  I  whose  coining  it  is? 
The  devil  may  have  his  mint,  if  he  chooses,  and  at  lit- 
tle cost  too.  Who,  think  ye,  but  he,  set  the  wheels  of 
that  coach  agoing,  that  is  passing  there  ?  Did  not  she 
within  it,  looking  so  fair  and  smiling,  sell  herself  to  one 
as  old  as  Satan,  though  to  my  mind  not  so  handsome 
or  proper  a  gentleman?  —  'T  is  the  way  of  the  world, 
and  I  '11  not  be  singular !  Bread,  did  you  ask  for,  my 
pretty  youth  ?  There  it  is,"  said  he,  with  a  cast  of  his 
eye  at  the  baker.  "  But  have  a  care  that  it  does  n't 
poison  you,  for  the  devil  is  the  father  of  cheats,  and 
his  child  had  the  making  on  't."  —  Abel  looked  pleased 
as  he  took  it.  —  "There's  a  sweet  smile  I  Call  again, 
my  lad,  but  at  another  hour ;  for  these  gentlemen  have 
no  great  liking  to  you,  and  you  may  stop  the  running 
of  my  tap." 

"  I  '11  never  take  change  of  you  again,"  said  the 
tailor,  as  he  left  the  shop,  "  till  that  draw  is  empty ;  for 
I  would  as  soon  handle  iron  at  white-heat  as  touch 
that  piece."  —  Sam  laughed  heartily,  and  called  out 
to  Abel,  as  he  crawled  from  the  shop,  "  Give  my  com- 
pliments to  your  master,  boy,  and  tell  him  that  I 
should  be  happy  to  supply  him  or  any  of  his  likely 
family."  —  Abel  bent  his  way  toward  the  house  of  his 
protector,  and  took  a  seat  under  the  hedge,  waiting  his 
coming. 

When  Paul  was  once  more  alone,  his  last  mournful 
words  to  Esther  still  sounded  in  his  ears.  But  her 
prayer  for  him  (of  which  he  heard  something,  as  in  a 
dream)  as  she  folded  her  protecting  arms  round  him ; 
the  home  and  shelter  he  felt  her  to  be  to  him,  when  he 
fell  on  her  neck  and  cried  out  that  he  was  safe ;  the 
expression  of  woe,  and  pity,  and  love  with  which  she 
looked  up  in  his  face  at  leaving  him,  —  came  all  at  once 


PAIL    I'KLTO.N.  351^ 

to  his  mind  with  a  chnir  and  cahning  iiilhiencc.  He 
felt  the  spring  of  blood  oiu-e  more  at  his  heart ;  and  his 
old  atVections  llowed  through  him  asfain  with  a  livin£j 
warmth.  The  passions  that  liad  raged  in  liim  like  lire 
went  snddenly  out ;  the  horrours  that  had  whirled  round 
him  and  crazed  his  brain  passed  oii";  he  felt  again  the 
earth  firm  under  him,  and  saw  that  he  stood  in  th;; 
cheerful  ligiit  which  fell  like  a  blessing  upon  all  things 
that  lay  in  the  beautiful  and  assured  tranquillity  of  na- 
ture. It  was  like  coming  out  of  one  of  those  terrific 
dreams,  in  which  we  have  passed  through  multitudes 
of  horrid  sights  and  dangers,  and  finding  it  bright 
morning,  and  all  as  safe  and  quiet  as  it  was  yesterday. 
The  mere  returning  of  the  simple  sense  of  reality 
brought  tears  of  joy  and  thankfulness  to  his  eyes.  — 
"  Am  I  again  among  the  abodes  of  men,  and  standing 
amidst  the  works  of  God  ?  Are  light,  and  truth,  and 
beauty  once  more  around  me  ?  And  were  all  the  hor- 
rours I  have  passed  through  a  conjuration  and  a  lie, 
raised  to  damn  me  ?  Come,  and  assure  me  of  it, 
Esther ;  for  though  thou  walkest  with  me  here,  thou 
seemest  to  me  kindred  with  hi^iier  beings.  O,  J  have 
gazed  upon  thee,  till  thy  rapt  looks  and  beautiful  mo- 
tions have  made  me  think  thee  an  imbodied  sj)irit,  re- 
vealing to  me  the  creations  that  hll  the  world  beyond 
us,  —  a  fair  and  passing  vision  returning  to  the  world, 
which,  for  a  while,  thou  cam'st  from. —  Let  me  go  to 
thee,"  said  he,  (juitting  his  room,  "  and  have  thine  eye 
rest  on  mine,  and  hear  thy  clear  voice,  and  listen 
while  you  tell  me  you  will  not  yet  go  from  me.'' 

Esther  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  her  full  dark  hair  hang- 
ing over  her  face;,  and  snow-white  arm,  on  which  her 
forehead  rested.  —  *'  My  wife,"  said  Paul,  as  he  kneeled 
down  by  her,   "liivc    J    liveci   only    to   alUict  you?      1 


352  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

could  throw  away  my  life,  and  count  it  nothing,  to 
bring  you  peace.  I  should  have  been  the  soother  of 
your  sorrows,  and  have  brought  you  your  little  daily 
joys.  And  is  it  I  who  have  broken  your  heart,  and 
made  life  comfortless  to  you  ?  " 

Esther  sobbed.  — "  No  answer  for  me,  Esther  ? 
Then  it  is  so.  Why  do  I  ask  ?  And  yet  a  vain  wish 
is  struggling  within  me  that  you  might  say  something 
to  quiet  a  self-accusing  mind.  My  will  is  not  in  my 
act;  but  when  I  ^vound  your  heart,  mine  bleeds 
doubly." 

"  I  do  believe  it,"  said  she,  raising  herself,  and  rest- 
ing on  him.  "  I  have  not  lost  your  love  yet ;  but  dear 
as  it  has  ever  been  to  me,  it  is  of  small  worth  without 
your  confidence.  It  cannot  content  me  unless  I  feel, 
as  it  were,  our  hearts'  blood  mingling  and  flowing  on 
warm  together.  To  be  loved  as  I  would  be,  we  must 
have  one  life,  one  being;  our  sorrows  must  no  more 
part  us  than  our  joys.  But  you  have  troubles  of  the 
mind,  and  shut  me  out,  like  a  stranger,  from  them  ; 
and  dreadful  thoughts  o'erinaster  you,  and  fatal  pur- 
poses, to  which  you  seem  driven;  and  vain  surmises 
and  dark  givings-out  are  all  I  know  of  them.  Is  this 
love,  Paul  ?  Is  it  all  your  heart  asks  for  ?  And  can  it  be 
in  your  noble  nature  to  give  only  the  poor  remnant  of 
your  mind  and  heart  to  her  whose  whole  soul  would 
alone  content  you  ?  —  Yet  this  is  nothing,"  she  cried, 
hiding  her  face.  "  Those  eyes  which  had  ever  but  one 
look  for  me,  last  night  were  turned  in  anger,  and  with 
a  searching  sternness,  on  me.  —  Last  night  was  it  ? 
Fears  and  grief  have  made  it  seem  an  age  since ! 
This  I  did  not  deserve,  Paul,  however  too  poor  a  thing 
I  may  be  for  a  mind  of  a  reach  like  yours  to  rest  on." 

"  Your  words  go  like  swords  through  me.     Do  not 


I'AlL    FKl.TON.  353 

break  down  this  overburdened  spirit  with  your  just 
complainings,  Esther.  I  would  not  be  what  I  am. 
'J'hink  you  it  is  in  my  disposition  to  torture  and  afflict 
you  as  I  have  done  ?  —  Look  up,  my  love,  and  tell 
me  if  I  am  not  changed.  There  is  an  inward  peace 
here,  which  I  never  felt  till  now.  I  've  been  out  of 
the  world,  out  of  myself;  and  this  naked  soul  has 
driven  through  fire  and  whirlwinds  ;  but  it  has  come 
back  to  its  place  of  rest,  to  its  quiet  trust  in  thee,  and 
the  repose  of  thy  full  love.  Could  T  look  on  this  face 
and — let  me  not  name  it.  Is  not  this  eye  open  as 
the  day  ?  And  do  I  not  read  truth  written  on  this 
brow  ?  When  I  first  saw  you,  Esther,  you  seemed 
made  up  of  sensations  more  exquisite  than  other  mor- 
tals knew  how  to  think  of,  as  if  of  a  nature  between 
us  and  angels,  and  moulded  to  live  a  perpetual  self- 
delight.  And  when  you  touched  a  flower  or  took  its 
jirefume,  I  thought  of  the  light  and  breeze  which  shone 
with  its  beauty  and  was  filled  with  its  odour.  You 
seemed  to  me  too  joyous  and  pure  ever  to  have  felt  our 
passions  or  known  our  sins.  And  when  I  have  sat  by 
you.  as  I  do  now,  with  the  soft  touch  of  your  hand 
in  mine,  and  your  eyes  resting  fondly  on  mine,  I  have 
felt  as  if  undergoing  a  gentle  change,  and  becoming 
a  nature  like  unto  yours ;  it  was  to  me  such  as  I  have 
thought  would  be  the  intercourse  of  mortals,  when 
these  bodies  become  incorruptible  and  glorified  in 
another  world.  —  Why  should  1  try  to  tell  what  I  now 
feel  ?  It  is  a  vain  thing.  Let  me  be  still,  while  my 
senses  drink  it  in." 

Esth'-r  hung  ovt^  him,  and  tears  of  joy  filled  her 
•  ■yes,  (Jue  fell  (»ii  Paul's  forehead,  She  wiped  it 
gently  away,  and  then  t<mched  her  lips  where  it  fell. 

"  Take  them  not  away  yet,  Esther,"  he  murnmred ; 
30- 


354  THE   IDLE    MAN. 

"  they  are  the  seal  of  pardon  for  my  wrongs  to  you, 
the  pledge  of  your  enduring  love  for  me,  the  promise 
of  unchanging  joy  through  life,  a  joy  that  is  to  purify 
me  and  fit  me  to  live  on  with  you  for  ever."  —  His 
voice  faltered,  and  she  saw  a  tear  trickle  from  under 
his  closed  lids. 

"  O,  I  could  have  lived  ages  of  misery  for  an  hour 
like  this,  Paul,  were  life  to  end  when  that  hour  had  run 
out ;  but  I  feel  that  years  are  in  store  for  us,  blessed  as 
our  souls  can  bear." 

"  I  hardly  dared  look  up,"  said  he,  "  till  I  heard  your 
voice,  lest,  waking,  I  should  find  it  a  heavenly  trance 
I  had  been  rapt  in.  Come,  let  me  rouse  myself,  and 
make  sure  that  all  is  real "  he  said,  putting  his  arm 
round  her,  as  he  rose  and  walked  with  her  to  the 
window. 

"  How  fresh  and  new  all  things  look ;  or  rather,  how 
like  it  is  to  our  return  to  old  and  remembered  places, 
where  nature  still  looks  young  and  healthful,  though 
we  are  growing  old.  But  ive  are  not  growing  old, 
Esther,  for  life  is  again  beginning  in  us.  Is  it  a  new 
creation,  or  are  other  senses  given  me  with  which  to 
see  and  feel  it  ?  The  boughs  swing  up,  and  the  leaves 
play  as  cheerfully  as  if  a  breeze,  for  which  they  had 
drooped  and  waited,  had  just  blown  on  them,  and  the 
declining  sun  lights  up  all  things  gloriously.  What 
a  glow  it  sends  over  that  hedge,"  said  he,  as  his  eye 
passed  along  it.  —  "  Hide  me  I  He  's  come  again  !  he 
follows  me!"  cried  Paul,  turning  terrour-struck  from 
the  window.  Esther  looked  at  him.  His  face  was 
udld  and  ghastly,  and  he  tottered  as  he  threw  himself 
on  her  shoulder  for  support. 

"  Speak,  speak,  Paul  I    Who  —  what  is  it  —  where  ?  " 

"  There  I  there !  do  vou  not  see  him  ?  "  he  uttered,  in 


PALL  FKLTON.  355 

a  hard-breathed  whisper,  and  jiointing  back  with  his 
finger,  without  daring  to  look  round. 

"  That  boy  ? "  asked  Esther,  trembling ;  "  I  've  seen 
him  before.  Who  and  what  is  he,  that  looks  so  like 
a  tormented  tiling  thrown  out  upon  the  earth  to  pain 
and  mischief  ?  *' 

"  Speak  not  of  him,  —  power  is  given  him.  1  feel 
him  on  me  now,"  he  screeched,  as  he  sprang  with  an 
enormous  leap  from  her.  —  "  OfVI  oti'I"  he  cried,  strug- 
gling as  if  to  loose  himself  from  some  strong  grasp.  — 
"They  call  me,  —  thousands  of  voices  in  my  ears'. 
Hear  them,  hear  them,  Esther  I — I  come  I    I  come!" 

» 

he  yelled,  darting  from  the  room,  his  hair  on  end,  his 
spread  hiuids  and  arms  stretched  out  before  him.  — 
Esther  tried  to  call  to  him  as  she  ran  toward  him. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  there  was  no  sound ;  and  she  fell 
to  the  floor. 

The  shouts  and  cry  alarmed  the  servants,  who  rush- 
ed  into  the  room.  They  raised  Esther,  and  laid  her  on 
the  sofa.  She  gasped  once  or  t^vice  ;  her  eyes  opened, 
then  closed  again.  At  last  the  color  came  to  her  cheek, 
and  starting  up  and  staring  round  her:  —  "My  hus- 
band I      Where  is  he  ?      Fly,  seek  him  I" 

"  Which  way  is  he  gone,  madam  .' " 

••  i  know  not.  Bring  him;  on  your  lives,  bring  him  I" 
She  rose  and  hurried  to  the  outi'r  door. 

"  Stay,  dear  madam  I "  said  her  waiting-woman. 
"  Whither  are  you  going  at  this  hour?" 

•'  Going  to  my  husband,  if  he  is  on  the  earth,  —  or  to 
my  grave." 

'*  Do  not  leav(f  the  house  bareheaded,  madam." 

"  Wr-ll,  w<'ll,  bring  mc  something,  cptickly."  The 
woman  returned,  and  was  about  ft)llowing  Esther.  — 
"Stay   here,"  sairl    "-In-.  -Ii,.   muv  rciurn  \vliil<'    1    am 


356  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

gone,  and  miss  me.  —  I  can  go  alone,"  she  murmured, 
as  she  left  the  door.  "  When  Paul  leaves  me,  what 
has  the  earth  for  me  to  fear  or  care  for  ?  "  —  She  took 
her  way  to  a  large,  intricate  wood,  which  lay  off  at  a 
distance  from  the  house,  and  bordering  upon  part  of 
the  rocky  ridge. 

Soon  after  Esther  left  the  house,  Frank  called  to 
see  her.  The  woman  told  all  she  knew.  — "  Gone 
out,  and  alone,  and  in  such  a  state  of  mind !  Which 
way  ?  "  — "  Toward  the  wood  you  see  yonder.  Sir." 
Frank  left  the  house  in  pursuit  of  her.  He  was 
alarmed  for  her,  for  he  feared  Paul,  though  he  knew 
not  why.  He  entered  the  wood,  and  wandered 
through  it  a  long  time  without  seeing  her.  The  light 
was  gi'owing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  he  became  more 
uneasy.  At  last  he  found  her,  leaning  against  a  tree, 
pale  and  still.  He  went  up  to  her,  and  spoke  kindly. 
She  seemed  not  to  regard  what  he  said,  but  asked, 
"  Is  he  nowhere  to  be  found  ?  "  —  "  Search  is  making," 
replied  Frank.  "  Let  me  help  you  home,  for  you  are 
exhausted ;  and  you  can  be  of  no  service  here."  —  She 
put  her  arm  within  his,  and  walked  on  slowly,  trem- 
bling from  weakness  and  fear.  Her  tears  fell  fast ;  for 
Frank's  friendly  and  gentle  manner  to  her,  in  her  deso- 
late sorrow,  touched  her  heart. 

When  Paul  left  the  house,  his  mind  was  so  hurried 
and  confused  from  the  sudden  shock  and  change  he 
had  undergone,  that  he  missed  the  passage  across  the 
ridge,  and  continued  wandering  along  over  and  be- 
tween the  broken  clefts,  till  at  last  he  came  upon  the 
wood  to  which  Esther  had  gone.  He  was  pushing 
swiftly  through  it,  when  he  caught  sight  of  Frank  and 
Esther  at  a  distance.  He  sprang  forward,  once,  with 
the    leap  of  a    tiger,    then  stood  still.     Every  passion 


I'ALI.    KKl.lK.N.  357 

within  him  seemed  suddenly  struck  dead,  and  the 
mind  aj)])eared  collecting  itscll"  lor  something  fatal :  all 
was  gloomy  and  hushed.  When  he  followed  them, 
it  was  slowly  and  with  a  cautious  step,  as  if  he  feared 
they  would  hear  his  tread.  He  kept  at  a  distance, 
witiiout  losing  sight  of  them,  till  they  left  the  wood  ; 
then  stood  concealed  at  the  edge  of  it,  watching  them 
as  they  went  toward  the  house. 

Esther's  strength  gradually  returned ;  and  she  no 
longer  needed  the  support  of  Frank's  arm.  As  Paul 
saw  her  draw  her  arm  from  Frank's,  "  'T  is  a  pity,"  he 
said,  in  bitter  scorn,  "  ihv.  wood  could  not  have  gone 
with  you,  that  the  world  might  not  interrupt  your 
loves."  He  did  not  follow  them,  but  contiiuied  pacing 
to  and  fro.  Sometimes  a  muttering  sound  came  from 
him ;  and  then  again  a  vehement  gesture  showed  starts 
of  passion.  At  length  he  seemed  to  wake  again  to  a 
clearer  sense  of  the  past,  and  his  step  ([uickened. 
''  Yes,''  he  cried,  '"  she  did  cross  me,  —  I  saw  her. 
She  passed  like  an  angel  before  me,  —  and  then  I  then 
she  vanished.  Why  am  I  fooled  with  this  show  of  in- 
nocence and  beauty  ?  The  fiends  have  all  I  —  The 
world's  a  hell;  and  all  is  to  mock  and  torture  us  with 
longings.  What  I  flesh  and  blood,  and  look  so  pure, 
when  the  pulse  beats  high,  —  hot  I  hot  I  And  seem  as 
ignorant  as  infancy,  as  if  the  rebel  body  told  Ihcm 
nothing.  Well  may  the  spirits  laugh  at  our  self-cheat- 
ing I  And  me,  too,  dark  and  imgainly,  —  gloomy, — 
silent  I  —  O, 'twas  a  pretty  lancy,  to  have  a  fantastic 
passion  to  fondle  my  ugliness  lor  a  while,  then  turn  lo 
the  other,  and  clasp  him  in  heighteiUMl  beauty  I —  Ease 
me,  ease  me  of  this  torture  I"  he  cried,  darting  from 
the  wood. 

it    was  jjcar  midnight    when    he    turned    homeward.. 


358  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

He  stopped  under  an  elm  near  the  house,  without  any 
settled  purpose.  Esther's  father  had  been  sent  for,  but 
was  absent ;  and  Frank,  unwilling  to  leave  the  house, 
remained  till  late.  The  clock  in  the  villasfe  at  last 
struck  twelve,  the  moon  was  down,  and  a  black  cloud 
over  the  sky.  At  last  the  door  opened,  and  as  Frank 
came  out,  Paul  saw  him  by  the  light  in  the  hall.  He 
came  so  close  to  the  tree,  that  Paul  drew  up  straight, 
as  he  passed ;  but  so  dark  was  it,  that  he  only  seemed 
like  a  blacker  shadowy  substance  going  by.  "  Now 
might  I  do  it,"  thought  Paul ;  "  but  he  is  not  my 
victim ;  some  other,  doomed  like  me,  must  do  that 
deed."  When  the  sound  of  Frank's  tread  at  length 
died  away,  Paul  went  to  the  door  and  tried  cautiously 
to  open  it.  It  was  fastened.  —  "  Shall  I  knock  ?  No, 
't  is  better  so.  —  I  have  it.  I  '11  prove  her ;  I  '11  know 
her  false  ere  I  do  it.  —  To  the  hvit,  —  to  the  hut  I  I  '11 
watch  her  nightly.  And  Abel,  he  wh©  serves  me,  and 
whom  my  soul  serves,  him  I  will  use  too." 

"  It  may  not  be,"  he  muttered,  as  he  groped  his  way 
along,  "  that  the  last  sin  's  committed.  And  shall  I  kill 
her  for  her  thoughts  ?  Who,  then,  would  live  the  day 
out  if  evil  thoughts  were  death  to  us?  Do  they  not 
mingle,  like  blaspheming  spirits,  with  our  adoring  mo- 
ments ?  And  shall  we  creatures  of  corruption  ask  of 
our  fellows  love  constant  and  untainted  ?  But  to  feign 
it  so !  To  weep  over  me  in  excess  of  joy  and  fond- 
ness !  —  So  she  protested.  And  I  with  a  simple  faith 
believed  it,  did  I  ?  Women's  tears !  Why,  they  are 
very  proverbs.  —  The  wood  I  the  wood !  Puts  her  arm 
in  his,  does  she  ?  —  and  leans  on  him,  too,  in  heart-sick 
languishment !  Would,  and  yet  dares  not ;  loves  the 
sin  to  very  madness,  and  sighs,  '  O,  that  it  were  no 
sin  ! '  —  Away,  away  ;  let  me  not  look  on  't  I     'T  is  all 


PAIL    FKLTON.  359 

a  lie,  a  phantasm  raised  by  the  powers  of  hell  to  make 
my  soul  Theirs. —  What  I  iimoceut,  and  died  by  my 
hand  ?  Hear  them,  —  liow  they  mock  and  laugh  at 
me  I      I  "II  know  more,  —  all  I  " 

He  made  his  way  forward  as  well  as  he  could,  but 
the  darkness  and  stillness  oi)pressed  him.  It  was  as  if 
life  in  the  universe  was  at  an  end ;  nothing  but  death 
everywhere,  and  like  a  power.  He  was  climbing  a 
rock,  when  a  cold,  lean  hand  suddenly  pressed  against 
his  face,  and  a  shriek  went  up  that  made  the  air  one 
shrill  sound ;  it  pierced  his  very  body.  He  could  not 
speak,  nor  move  a  limb.  "  You  child  of  hell,"  he  called 
out,  at  last,  '•  who  set  you  on  to  this  ?  Speak,  where 
are  you  ?     Won't  you  answer  ?  " 

Abel,  believing  that  he  had  touched  one  of  those  be- 
ings who  continually  haunted  him,  had  in  his  terrour 
fallen  from  the  rock.  —  "  Was  it  not  one  of  them  ?  "  he 
cried,  in  a  feeble  voice.  "  Is  it  you,  my  master  ?  Do 
come  and  help  me.  Tm  bruised,  dreadfully  bruised. 
I  meant  no  harm." 

"  And  what  brought  you  here  at  this  hour,  so  dark  a 
night  ?"  asked  Paul,  getting  down  by  him. 

"  I  was  after  you,  Sir." 

"  And  why  do  you  iumt  me  thus  ?  Is  it  to  make 
me  like  yourself,  a  child  of  the  damned?  Why  were 
you  under  tlie  hedge  to-day?  O,  that  was  a  moment 
of  more  than  earthly  joy  to  me,  and  your  blasted  form 
crossed  me  and  (lung  me  out  from  heaven  I" 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me  so.  I  do  what  I  must  do :  and 
They  will  never  let  me  leave  you  any  more." 

"  Weill  well!  but  what  made  yon  look  so  soon  for 
me  here  again  ?  " 

"  I  heard  vou  cry  out,  and  saw  voii  run  i'rom  the 
house;  and  then  your  wife  fell,  I  thought,  as  she  was 


360  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

passing  the  window ;  and  then  I  remembered  what  you 
told  me,  and  what  They  are  always  telling  me  about 
something  to  be  done.  And  it  was  put  into  my  mind 
that  that  was  it ;  and  somehow,  I  can't  tell  how,  that 
I  had  made  you  kill  her."  Paul  shuddered.  "  I  would 
have  run  after  you ;  but  I  was  afraid  they  would 
see  me  and  catch  me ;  so  I  crawled  through  the  hedge, 
and  went  away  round  the  house  ;  and  when  I  got  there 
I  could  see  nothing  of  you.  And  I  looked  all  along 
this  passage  and  over  the  wood.  At  last.  Sir,  I  went 
to  the  very  hut,  and  looked  in,  —  I  did,  truly.  Sir, 
though  sometliing  glimmered  over  my  eyes  so,  I  could 
hardly  see.  I  could  n't  find  you  anywhere ;  so  I 
thought  I  would  go  back  to  the  house  and  wait  till 
night."  There  was  nothing  more  said.  Abel  soon 
fell  asleep,  while  Paul  sat  musing  till  daybreak. 

The  clouds  now  began  to  break  up  and  move  off 
like  an  army  of  giants ;  and  the  sun  soon  appeared, 
flinging  his  light  across  them,  and  throwing  over  them 
gorgeous  apparel  of  purple  and  gold,  making  them  fit 
attendants  on  such  a  king.  "  Rouse  up,  and  follow 
me,"  said  Paul,  shaking  Abel  by  the  arm. 

As  he  drew  near  the  hut,  the  vision  he  had  seen 
there,  the  world  of  ten-ours  that  had  been  opened  to 
him  in  trance,  and  the  instrument  then  put  into  hia 
hand,  and  for  a  purpose  of  which  he  could  not  doubt, 
came  to  his  mind  like  a  fatal  certainty  from  ^vhieh 
there  was  no  turning  away.  He  did  not  recoil  in  hor- 
rour ;  there  was  no  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  the 
deed,  no  agony  of  prayer  for  escape.  It  acted  like 
long  dungeon  darkness  upon  him.  A  sullen  stillness 
spread  over  his  mind,  dulling  his  senses,  and  filling  the 
soul  with  one  dark,  sleepy  thought,  dreamlike  and  dim. 
He  entered  the  hut  slowly,  and  stood  in  the  middle  of 


PAUL    FKr.TOX. 


361 


it.      No  mntterinET  sound  camo  from  him.  nor  did  lu^ 


•a 


move  a  limb  ;  his  eyes  rolled  like  a  blind  man's,  seeing 
nothing,  and  searching  for  ligiit.  Abel,  who  had 
ventured  as  far  as  the  door,  stood  aghast  and  breath- 
less, looking  for  the  moment  when  he  would  sink  into 
the  ground,  or  be  swept  off  in  sheets  of  fire.  It  was 
nearly  an  hour  before  there  \vas  motion  in  him.  At 
last  his  head  sank  on  his  chest,  his  eyes  were  cast 
down,  and  Abel  heard  him  breathe,  once,  long  and 
heavy.  He  came  toward  the  door  with  a  slow,  wander- 
ing step.  Abel  shrunk  from  him  as  if  he  had  been  a 
dead  man  put  in  motion.  He  went  to  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  and  sat  down  upon  the  roots  of  the  pine,  his  feet 
resting  on  the  sand.  Abel  still  kept  his  eye  upon  him, 
in  awful  suspense.  There  was  a  slender  stone  lying 
amongst  the  roots.  Paul's  eye  fell  on  it,  and  became 
fixed.  By  and  by  he  put  out  his  hand  and  took  it  up. 
He  continued  a  long  while  turning  it  over,  and  feeling 
it,  and  looking  at  it  on  all  sides.  He  put  his  hand  to 
his  bosom,  then  drew  it  back,  giving  a  nod,  as  if  say- 
ing all  was  as  it  should  be.  "  Come  hither,  Abel,"  he 
said.  Abel  went,  as  if  drawn  to  him.  "  Here  's  more 
money  for  thy  day's  meal,"  he  said,  taking  some  from 
his  pocket.  Abel  put  out  his  hand,  but  jerked  it  back 
as  Paul's  came  near  it,  and  the  money  fell  on  the 
sand.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  Paul  took  no 
notice  of  his  fears.  "  Go,  next,  to  my  liouse ;  find  out 
what  you  can,  and  bring  me  word.  Think  not  to  be- 
tray me,"  he  continued,  without  looking  up.  "  I  am 
with  you  wherever  you  go."  Abel  seemed  to  wither 
at  the  words. 

Paul  fixed  his  eye  in  side  glance  on  him,  till  he  was 
out  of  sight;  then,  looking  c-autiously  round,  drew  the; 
knife  slowly  from  his  ho'^om.      Il  \v:is  pointed.      He  felt. 

vor..   I.  Ml 


362  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

of  it.  The  point  was  dull.  He  drew  it  once  across  the 
stone.  The  sound  curdled  his  blood.  He  went  on  with 
his  work.  The  sun  flashed  upon  him  from  the  sand ; 
there  was  no  breeze  among  the  branches,  nor  anything 
stirring  for  miles  round.  No  sound  reached  his  ear 
but  the  hot,  singing  noise  of  the  insects  under  the  tree, 
and  the  wh^^tting  of  the  knife.  Blazing  noon  came, 
and  Paul  still  went  on  with  his  work,  stopping  only  to 
feel  the  point  of  the  knife,  examine  its  handle,  and 
scrape  off  the  rust  about  it.  The  sun  was  at  last  about 
setting,  no  cloud  near;  it  was  glowing,  and  its  rim 
clearly  marked.  He  looked  on  it  wistfully,  as  if  pray- 
ing in  mind  to  it  not  to  forsake  him.  It  half  disap- 
peared, then  shot  suddenly  and  silently  down.  His 
eyes  shut ;  his  face  for  a  moment  was  tremulous  and 
mournful,  but  he  did  not  sigh.  When  he  looked  up 
again,  there  were  no  bright  tree-tops,  no  holy  vesper 
of  birds ;  it  was  all  sad,  still  twilight.  Presently  a 
light  night-breeze  passed  over  the  pines,  which  gave 
out  a  low,  mourning  sound.  It  struck  on  his  ear  like 
the  notes  of  spirits  wailing  the  newly  departed.  He 
started  up,  and  looked  into  the  shadowy  wood,  as  if  he 
saw  there  the  passing  pall.  He  waved  his  hand  once 
or  twice  before  his  eyes,  to  scatter  the  vision  ;  then 
turning  round  again,  and  placing  the  stone  back  among 
the  roots,  and  putting  the  knife  in  his  bosom,  went  and 
seated  himself  before  the  hut. 

Abel  returned  at  night,  but  with  little  news.  The 
servants,  he  said,  were  continually  going  out  and  in, 
but  they  would  not  look  at  him,  nor  answer  him  when 
he  spoke  to  them. 

"  Did  you  see  none  besides  the  servants  ?  " 
"  Only  young  Mr.  Ridgley.     He  went  into  the  house 
about  noon  ;  but  I  saw  nothing  more  of  him." 


PAUL    FELTON.  363 

"  I  will  know  where  he  is  to  be  seen,  then,"  mut- 
tered Paul,  ri.^ing. 

He  passed  on  through  the  wood  and  the  rocky  pas- 
sage, then  Took  his  way  to  the  house.  All  was  quiet. 
He  walked  round  it,  but  saw  nothing.  It  was  to  him 
like  a  place  he  was  shut  out  from  for  ever,  the  only 
blessed  spot  in  a  world  where  all  else  was^ursed.  He 
stood  looking  on  it.  with  longing  and  home-sickness. 
By  and  by  a  light  appeared  in  his  wife's  chamber.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  it  as  to  a  loved  star.  Presently 
Esther  passed  near  the  window.  At  the  sight  of  her 
he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  He  could  bear  it 
no  longer ;  but,  rushing  from  the  house,  hurried  back 
to  the  hut. 

The  next  morning  Abel  was  sent  again  ;  and  the 
day  was  wearing  away  like  the  former,  Paul  scarcely 
conscious  what  he  was  doing,  or  what  was  the  purpose 
of  his  mind.  Abel  returned  a  little  past  noon,  telling 
him  that  he  saw  his  wife,  with  Frank,  going  toward  the 
wood  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge,  about  an  hour  be- 
fore. Paul  sprang  up  and  ran  forward,  Abel  following 
him.  He  went  over  every  mound  and  through  every 
valley.  Frank,  however,  had,  in  the  mean  time,  returned 
with  Esther  from  searching  after  her  husband,  (her 
father  having  before  taken  another  route,)  and,  recol- 
lecting the  Devil's  Haunt,  as  it  was  called,  set  o(F  alone 
for  it  immediately.  After  much  clambering  and  toil, 
Ik-  reached  it,  traversed  the  ground,  and  examined  the 
hut  ;  but  no  trace  appeared  of  Paul.  He  returned  late, 
tin-d  ;ind  disaj)pointcd. 

'l'h<'  sif^ht  of  the  wood,  and  what  he  had  witnessed 
there,  excited  Paul's  mind,  so  that  he  continued  likt^ 
a  dog  in  full  chase  thr()u<(h  it  till  near  midnight,  with- 
out considering  how  idle  was  his  search  at  that  hour. 


364  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

At  last  he  became  exhausted ;  his  torpor  returned,  and 
he  went  back  to  his  hiding-place,  like  one  walking  in 
his  sleep. 

About  dusk,  the  following  day,  Abel  returned  with 
the  information  that  Esther's  father  was  to  set  off  the 
next  morning  on  a  journey  of  a  few  days.  "  Then," 
thought  Paul  "  will  be  my  time  to  make  all  sm*e.  No 
husband,  no  father  by,  still  rooms,  and  moonlight. 
Will  these  not  put  toys  into  the  brain,  and  make  the 
heart  beat  ?  " 

"  You  must  see  him  start,  and  mark  who  goes  with 
him." 

Abel  was  in  full  time  to  see  Mr.  Waring  enter  his 
carriage.  He  had  set  off  to  acquaint  Paul's  father 
with  what  had  happened,  and  to  consult  with  him  what 
course  to  pursue.  He  would  have  gone  sooner,  had  he 
not  been  afraid  to  leave  Esther,  whom  he  stayed  with 
to  soothe  and  comfort ;  or  her  mind  was  nearly  unset- 
tled. Frank  promised,  at  his  going,  that  no  pains 
should  be  spared  to  discover  Paul,  and  that  he  would 
be  as  a  brother  to  Esther.  The  old  gentleman  left 
home  with  a  sorrowful,  misgiving  heart ;  and  Abel  has- 
tened to  make  known  his  depaxtm'e,  which  took  place 
about  noon. 

Paul  sat,  as  he  had  done  each  day  before,  in  the  same 
spot,  passing  the  knife  slowly  over  the  stone,  then  stop- 
ping and  feeling  it,  and  looking  it  over.  His  expres- 
sion, though  dark,  was  dull  and  abstracted,  and  his  mo- 
tions heavy,  slow,  and  uncertain.  The  blood  moved 
sluggishly,  and  life  seemed  scarcely  going  on  in  him. 
When  Abel  came  up,  he  did  not,  as  usual,  conceal  the 
knife.  Abel  knew  it  instantly,  though  now  bright  and 
sharpened.  All  his  horrours  rushed  upon  him;  his 
knees   knocked   against   each  other,  his  hands  struck 


PAl'L    l-ELTO\.  365 

against  his  Thii!:lis,  and  he  fell  on  the  saiul,  at  Paul's^ 
feet.  —  '•  The  knile !  the  knife !  hide  it !  hide  it  I  There  's 
murder  I  —  the  deed's?  doing,  now,  now  I  Save  me! 
take  me  out  o'  this  blood!"  Paid  leaped  upon  the 
bank,  and  stood  looking  down  on  Abel,  in  horronr.  He 
.^eemed  to  him  stmggli ng  in  a  red,  elotted  sea,  which 
presently  appeared  sinking  into  the  ground,  leaving 
drops  here  and  there  rolling  on  the  sand,  till,  at  last, 
there  were  no  more  of  them. 

Abel  recovered  slowly ;  and,  raising  himself  on  his 
knees,  looked  imploringly  in  Paul's  face.  He  saw  noth- 
ing there  but  an  unchanging,  sullen  gloom. 

"  And  what  do  vou  bring  me?"  asked  Paul. 

"  I  saw  him  leave  the  house  in  his  carriage  this 
noon." 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes,  Sir,  alone." 

"  To-night  it  must  be  done,  then.  Do  you  not  hear 
them  telling  me,  Abel  ?" 

"  Send  me  not  again!"  cried  Abel.     "  O,  spare  me!" 

"  Is  it  not  fated,  boy?  Think  you  the  bonds  of  hell, 
that  now  hold  you,  can  be  broken?  Look  in.  Is  not 
He  there,  busy  at  your  heart?  Your  work  is  doing, — 
mine's  to  come,  quickly." 

''  We  're  lost,  then!"  cried  Abel,  springing  up.  "  Let 
me  go  with  you." 

Paul  continued  wandering  through  the  wood ;  Abel 
following  close  after  him,  wherever  he  turned.  1'hey 
went  on  in  silence ;  Paul  now  and  then  sending  a  glance 
back  on  Abel,  as  if  he  were  some  evil  thing  dogging 
him  at  his  heels. 

He  at  last  bent  his  way  to  the  passage  over  the 
ridge,  and  when  h<>  h;id  pnssed  it  stoj)ped  suddenly, 
Inrnin;,'  his  eye  nn  Ahi-l.      Aldl  caiiie  up.     I'aiil  pointed 


366  THB     IDLE    MAN. 

towards  the  house.  "  Bring  me  word  quickly."  He 
then  sat  down  upon  a  rock,  gazing,  like  an  outcast, 
upon  the  distant  chimney-tops  of  his  own  home,  while 
Abel  crawled  away  to  his  appointed  task.  Before  long, 
Abel  returned,  saying  he  had  been  round  the  house,  but 
saw  nothing,  till  at  last,  as  he  was  coming  away,  Mr. 
Ridgley  passed  him,  and  Avent  in.  A  flush  crossed 
Paul's  cheek,  but  he  said  nothing. 

Frank,  according  to  his  promise  to  her  father,  w^ent 
to  see  Esther.  She  was  walking  the  room  when  he 
entered,  her  arms  folded,  her  long,  dark  hair  fallen  round 
her  pale  face  and  sunken  eyes.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
as  asking  if  there  were  any  good  thing  to  tell  her.     He 

understood  it.    "  Nothing  as  yet,  but  I  hope "    She 

shook  her  head  despondingly,  as  she  turned  away  and 
walked  to  the  window.  "  Do  not  despair,"  said  he,  go- 
ing toward  her ;  "  all  may  be  right  again  in  a  few  days." 
—  She  drew  up,  as  she  turned  round  upon  him.  Her 
look  had  something  of  reproach  in  it,  as  if  it  were  not 
in  his  natiue  to  know  what  she  felt,  and  that  he  was 
thinking  to  cheat  a  common  sorrow. —  He  shrunk  back, 
and  moved  toward  the  door.  She  followed  hastily  after 
him,  and  touched  his  arm.  "  Nay,  nay,  go  not  from  me 
so ;  trouble  has  made  me  strange.  My  more  tlian 
brother,"  said  she,  giving  him  her  pallid  hand,  "  if  you 
never  see  me  again,  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  looked 
in  unkindness  on  you.  Or  if  I  ever  spoke  lightly  when 
you  were  earnest,  forget  it,  will  you?  —  It  seems  to  me, 
I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  and  passing  her  hand 
over  her  brow,  as  if  trying  to  recall  her  thoughts,  —  "I 
think  I  once  made  light  of  what  you  said  to  me. — 
Well,  well,  there 's  no  more  trifling  in  this  world. — Yes, 
for  others,  but  not  for  me.  —  All  's  dark  here  ;  —  go 
where  't  is  brighter  I"     He  looked  at  her  earnestly.     He 


Pali.    FKl.TON,  367 

saw  the  hurried  state  ot"  mind  pans"  of}',  and  her  cahn  sor- 
row return.  He  liadc  her  a  kind  good  night,  saying  he 
would  see  her  again  in  the  morning.  "  Perhaps  so," 
said  she  to  herself,  as  he  left  the  iiouse. 

She  went  to  tiie  door,  and  stood  looking  upward  at 
the  stars,  and  then  upon  the  fair,  silent  moon,  whose 
light  fell  like  sleep  upon  the  earth.  "  So  I  stood,  and 
.so  the  moon  shone  on  us,  when  he  hrst  told  me  that  he 
loved  me.  —  And  there  —  there  he  comes!"  she  cried,  as 
her  eye  caught  the  figure  of  a  man  descending  a  hill  on 
the  road.  He  sank  gradually  down,  till  lost  behind  the 
hedge.  At  last  she  heard  his  step  as  he  drew  near  the 
house.  "  Paul  I"  she  called  out,  in  an  eager,  shrill  voice. 
There  was  no  answer  but  that  of  the  sharp,  taunting 
echoes  which  rang  ofl'  among  the  rocks.  "  He 's  dead, 
he's  dead,  and  they  mock  me  with  it  I"  She  listened 
\vith  a  beating  heart.  The  man  passed  by,  and  the 
sound  of  his  steady  tread  died  slowly  away  along  the 
road.  She  walked  back  into  the  parlour;  and  lying 
down  on  the  sofa,  her  sufferings  and  present  state 
wandered  like  a  dream  through  her  mind. 

Mr.  Waring  began  his  journey;  but  the  farther  he 
went  from  home,  the  more  troubled  he  became.  A 
misgiving,  which  he  could  not  control,  took  possession 
of  him ;  and  he  at  last  ordered  his  servant  to  drive 
back.  As  soon  as  he  reached  home,  he  set  ofl  for  his 
daughter's  house. 

Paul  had  remained  seated  on  the  rock.  Abel  was 
a  little  below  him,  looking  wistfully  and  eagerly  at 
him,  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  each  look  and  motion 
ill  him.  For  a  long  time,  there  was  no  more  move- 
ment or  change  of  expression,  than  il  he  had  been  a 
statue  (lit  out  of  the  rock  he  sat  on.  Hut  as  the  time 
drew   near,   tlif   lie;ivv.  settled   tjloom   l)rokt^   sl«)wly    up. 


368  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  troubled  and  fearful  thoughts  began  to  stir  them- 
selves. Abel  saw  sudden  tremblings  pass  over  his 
frame,  and  a  twitching  of  the  muscles  of  the  face.  As 
the  huge,  mysterious  shadows  of  evening  gathered 
round  him,  he  looked  hastily  about,  and  there  were 
sudden  flashings  of  the  eye.  He  muttered  something, 
as  if  the  shadows  had  been  spirits  come  to  watch  and 
warn  him  to  his  work.  Abel  looked  on  with  clasped 
hands,  as  if  praying  it  might  not  be,  till  he  became  so 
weak  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his  seat.  "  They  are 
on  him  now ! "  cried  Abel  to  himself.  "  O,  how  they 
torture  him !  And  they  are  coming,  —  I  feel  them  cotu- 
ing,  —  they  are  seizing  me ! "  —  A  cold  sweat  ran  over 
his  body. 

The  twilight  died  away.  For  a  while  Paul  became 
motionless  again,  and  lost  in  thought ;  till,  leaping 
suddenly  to  the  ground,  with  his  eye  eagerly  fixed, 
grasping  the  knife  and  crying  out,  "  On !  on !  I  '11  fol- 
low you ! "  he  rushed  swiftly  forward.  —  "  Stay !  stay ! " 
shrieked  Abel,  darting  after  him,  and  seizing  upon  the 
skirts  of  his  coat.  Paul  ran  on,  till  he  dragged  Abel  to 
the  earth,  and  his  hold  loosened.  He  turned  and  saw 
the  poor  boy  stretched  on  the  ground.  —  "  Stop  I  let  me 
go  with  you ! "  gasped  out  Abel.  "  Do  not  murder,  — 
murder !  " 

"  Murder  ?  The  deed  's  yours,  —  theirs.  They  who 
set  you  on  to  curse  me,  —  all  do  it.  —  'T  is  done !  One 
hell  swallows  up  all ! "  he  screamed,  spurning  Abel  from 
him,  and  rushing  on  again.  This  was  too  much  for 
Abel's  weakened  reason.  To  believe  he  had  been 
used  as  the  eternal  curse  of  the  man  who  had  been 
kind  to  him  and  nourished  him,  when  no  one  else 
would  so  much  as  look  on  him,  and  to  be  thrown  off 
at  last  by  him,  too  I  —  He  sprang  from  the  ground,  he 


PAUL    FELTON.  JJG9 

leaped,  he  danced,  he  shouted,  and  ran  in,  mad,  among 
the  rocks. 

"When  Mr.  Warhig  reached  the  house,  he  found  liis 
daugliter  lying  in  a  state  of  mind  but  faintly  conscious 
of  what  had  passed.  He  took  her  hand,  and  called 
her  byname.  She  looked  up  at  liim  siirprised. — "I 
thought  you  had  gone,  Sir  I  Why  are  you  here?" 
she  asked  eagerly,  as  she  rose.  "  Is  he  found  ?  is  he 
mad,  —  dead  ?  " 

'•  AVe  have  discovered  nothing;  but  I  was  unwilling 
to  leave  you." 

"  Then  you  would  not  leave  me ;  yet  he  could,  —  he 
could  leave  me,  —  break  my  heart,  and  leave  me  to  die 
alone,  all  alone. —  Do  not  blame  me,  Paul;  ijidccd, 
indeed,  I  meant  nothing.  I  know  mortal  cannot  tell 
or  tliuik  how  much  you  love  me.  Come,  let  me  part 
back  your  hair.  —  So  I  so !  I  must  smooth  that  brow, 
too.  There  I  there  I  Now  you  look  as  you  do  when 
you  call  me  your  own  Esther ! " 

"  My  child,  my  daughter,  try  to  recoUect  yourself." 

'•  I  do  now ;  but  my  mind  wanders  strangely.  O 
my  father,  he  had  a  soul  so  large  I  And  wiien  wild 
thoughts,  I  know  not  wliat  they  were,  did  not  possess 
it,  it  was  so  full  of  love  for  me  I  They  fired  his  brain, 
and  he's  gone  away  to  die,  none  know  whither;  and 
I  cannot  go  to  him.  —  But  I,  too,  shall  soon  die;  and 
then  1  "11  meet  him  where  there  's  no  more  trouble,"  she 
sobbed  out,  as  she  fi-ll  on  her  father's  neck,  while  he 
supported  hi  r  in  his  arms. 

At  this  instant  l^uil  reached  one  of  tlie  windows; 
the  curtains  were  partly  closed.  There  was  a  dim 
light  in  the  room.  He  had  heard  that  tiie  father  had 
goni-  on  his  journey;  and,  not  long  before,  Abel  had 
seen  I'Vank  go  into  the  lioiisc.     He  could  just  perceive 


370  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

his  wife  hanging  round  some  one's  neck,  and  the  man's 
arm  round  her.  At  the  sight,  he  gave  a  shout  of  de- 
moniac triumph,  and  ran  from  the  window.  Loud  as 
it  was,  she  was  too  much  lost  in  her  wretchedness  to 
hear  it.  Her  father  was  alarmed,  and,  without  telling 
her  what  he  had  heard  or  suspected,  advised  her  to  rest 
awhile,  and  then  went  out  with  the  servants.  They 
returned  disappointed.  He  told  Esther  he  would  not 
leave  the  house  that  night,  as  she  was  not  well.  At  a 
late  hour,  all  being  still  abroad,  they  retired  to  rest; 
and  Esther,  worn  with  her  distress,  soon  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep. 

Paul  drew  near  the  house  once  more,  and  watched 
tm  the  last  light  was  put  out.  — "  The  innocent  and 
guilty  both  sleep,  all  but  Paul!  Not  even  the  grave 
wUl  be  a  resting-place  for  me !  They  hunt  and  drive 
me  to  the  deed,  and  when  't  is  done,  will  snatch  the 
abhorred  soul  to  fires  and  tortures.  Why  should  I 
rest  more  ?  The  bosom  I  slept  sweetly  on,  —  blissful 
dreams  stealing  over  me,  —  the  bosom  that  to  my  de- 
lighted soul  seemed  all  fond  and  faithful,  —  why,  what 
harboured  in  it?  Lust  and  deceit,  and  sly,  plotting 
thoughts,  showing  love  where  they  most  loathed. 
They  stung  me,  —  ay,  in  my  sleep  crept  out  upon  me, 
and  stung  me,  —  poisoned  my  very  soul,  —  hot,  burning 
poisons  !  —  Peace,  peace,  your  promptings,  you  that 
put  me  to  this  deed ;  —  drive  me  not  mad  I  Am  I  not 
about  it  ?  " 

He  walked  up  cautiously  to  the  door,  and,  taking  a 
key  from  his  pocket,  unlocked  it  and  went  in.  There 
was  now  a  suspense  of  all  feeling.  He  entered  the  par- 
lour. His  wife's  shawl  was  hanging  on  the  back  of  a 
chair ;  books  in  which  he  had  read  to  her  were  lying  on 
the  table,  and  her  work-table  was  near  it,  open.    His  eye 


PAUL    FELTON.  371 

passed  over  them,  but  there  was  no  emotion.  He  left 
the  room,  and  ascended  the  stairs  with  a  slow,  soft  step, 
stealing  throni^h  his  own  house  cautiously  as  a  thief. 
He  unlocked  the  door  of  his  dressinj^-rooMi,  and  passed 
on  without  noticin£(  any  part  of  it.  His  iiand  shook  as 
he  partly  opened  liis  wife's  chamber-door.  He  listened  ; 
—  all  was  still.  He  cast  his  eves  round,  then  entered 
and  shut  the  door  after  him.  He  walked  up  by  the  side 
of  her  bed  without  turning  his  eyes  towards  it,  and 
seated  himself  down  upon  it,  by  her.  Then  it  was  he 
dared  to  look  on  her,  as  she  lay  in  all  her  beauty,  WTap- 
ped  in  a  sleep  so  gentle  he  could  not  hear  her  breathing. 
She  looked  as  if  an  angel  talked  with  her  in  her  dreams. 
Her  dark,  glossy  hair  had  fallen  over  her  bright,  fair 
neck  and  bosom,  and  the  moonlight,  striking  through  it, 
pencilled  it  in  beautiful  thready  shadows  on  her. 

Paul  sat  for  a  while  with  folded  arms,  looking  down 
on  her.  His  eyes  moved  not,  and  in  his  dark  face  was 
the  unchanging  hardness  of  stone.  His  mind  appeared 
elsewhere.  There  was  no  longer  feeling  in  him.  He 
seemed  waiting  the  order  of  some  stern  power.  The 
command  at  last  came.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
heart,  and  felt  its  regular  beat;  then  drew  the  knife 
from  his  bosom.  Once  more  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
heart;  then  put  the  point  there.  He  )>ressed  his  eyes 
hard  with  one  hand,  and  the  knife  sunk  to  the  handle. 
There  was  a  convulsive  start  and  a  groan.  He  look(>d 
on  licr.  A  flutter  passed  over  her  frame,  and  her  filmy 
eyes  opened  on  him  once;  but  he  was  as  senseless  as 
the  body  that  lay  before  him.  The  moon  shone  fnlly 
on  the  corpse  and  on  him  that  sat  by  it,  and  the  silent 
night  went  on.  By  and  by,  up  came  the  sun  in  the  hot, 
flushed  sky,  and  sent  his  rays  over  them.  Paul  moved 
not,  nor  heeded  tin;  change.     There  was  no   noise,  nor 


372  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

motion.  There  were  they  two  together,  like  two  of 
the  dead. 

At  last  Esther's  attendant,  entering  suddenly,  saw 
the  gloomy  figure  of  Paul  before  her.  She  ran  out  with 
a  cry  of  terrom*,  and  in  a  moment  the  room  was  filled 
with  servants.  The  old  man  came  in,  trembling.  No 
tear  was  wrung  from  him,  nor  a  groan :  he  bowed  his 
head,  as  saying,  It  is  done. 

The  alarm  was  given,  and  Frank,  with  the  neigh- 
bours, went  up  to  the  chamber.  Though  the  room  ^vas 
nearly  full,  not  a  sound  was  heard.  The  stillness  seem- 
ed to  spread  over  them  all,  from  Paul  and  the  dead. 
Frank  and  some  others  came  near  him,  and  stood  be- 
fore him ;  but  he  continued  looking  on  his  wife,  as  he 
sat  with  his  crossed  hands  resting  on  his  thigh,  while 
that  which  had  done  the  murder  still  held  the  bloody 
knife. 

No  one  moved.  At  last  they  looked  at  each  other, 
and  one  of  them  took  Paul  by  the  ^vrist.  He  turned 
his  slow,  heavy  eye  on  them,  as  if  asking  w^ho  they 
were,  and  what  they  wanted.  They  instinctively 
shrunk  back ;  and  he  who  held  his  arm  letting  it  go,  it 
fell  like  a  dead  man's. 

There  was  a  movement  near  the  door ;  and  presently 
Abel  stood  directly  before  Paul,  his  hands  drawn  be- 
tween his  knees,  his  body  distorted  and  writhing  as  with 
pain,  the  muscles  of  his  face  hard  and  twisted,  and  his 
features  pinched,  cold,  and  blue.  There  was  a  gleam 
and  glitter,  and  something  of  a  laugh,  with  anguish, 
too,  in  his  crazed  eye,  as  it  flitted  back  and  forth  from 
Esther  to  Paul.  At  last  Paul  glanced  upon  him.  At 
the  sight  of  Abel  he  gave  a  shuddering  start  that  shook 
the  bed.  He  looked  once  more  on  his  wife ;  his  hair 
rose  up,  and  eyes  became  wild.  —  "  Esther !  "  he  gasped 


I'Aii,   rr.i.TON. 


373 


out,  tossing  up  his  arms  as  he  threw  himself  forward. 
He  stnick  the  bed,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Abel  looked, 
and  saw  liis  face  black  with  the  rush  of  l)lood  to  tlie 
head ;  then  giving  a  leap  at  which  he  nearly  touched 
the  ceiling,  with  a  deafening  shriek  that  rang  througli 
the  house,  darted  out  of  the  chamber,  and,  at  a  sjiring, 
reached  the  outer  door. 

They  felt  of  Paul.  —  Life  had  left  him. 

Frank  took  the  father  from  the  room.  Preparations 
were  hastily  made ;  and  about  the  close  of  the  day,  Es- 
ther's body,  followed  by  a  few  neighbours  and  friends, 
was  carried  to  the  gi-ave.  The  place  was  not  very  far 
from  the  foot  of  the  stony  ridge.  As  they  drew  near 
it,  the  sun  was  going  down,  the  sky  clear,  and  of  a 
bright,  warm  glow.  Presently  a  figure  was  seen  run- 
ning and  darting  in  crossing  movements  along  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  leaping  from  point  to  point,  more  like  a 
creature  of  the  air  than  of  the  earth,  for  it  hardly  seem- 
ed to  touch  on  anything.  It  was  mad  Abel.  So 
swift  and  shooting  were  his  motions,  and  so  quicldy  did 
he  leap  and  dance  to  and  fro,  that  it  appeared  to  the 
dazzled  eye  as  if  there  were  hundreds  hokUng  their 
revels  in  the  air ;  and  now  and  then  a  wild  laugh  reach- 
ed the  mourners,  that  seemed  to  come  from  out  the  still 
sky.  When  it  was  night,  the  men  who  had  made  Paul's 
grave,  a  little  witliout  the  consecrated  ground,  came  to 
the  house,  and  taking  up  the  body,  moved  off  toward 
the  place  in  which  they  were  to  lay  it. —  No  bell  tolled 
for  the  departed  ;  no  one  followed  to  mourn  over  him, 
as  h<!  was  laid  in  lh(;  ground  away  from  man,  or  1o 
iicar  the  earth  fall  on  his  coHiii,  —  that  sound  whicii 
mak«'s  us  feel  as  il  our  living  bodies,  too,  were;  crumbling 
into  (lust. 

It   had    hccii  a  chilly    nighl  ;  and  while   the  frost  was 

vol,.  I.  32 


374 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


yet  heavy  on  the  grass,  some  of  the  neighbours  went  to 
wonder  and  morahze  over  Paul's  grave.  There  appear- 
ed something  singular  upon  it.  They  ventured  timidly 
on,  and  found,  lying  across  it,  poor  Abel.  He  was  ap- 
parently dead ;  and  some  of  the  boldest  took  hold  of 
him.  He  opened  his  eyes  a  little,  and  uttered  a  faint, 
weak  cry.  They  di'opped  their  hold  ;  his  limbs  quiver- 
ed and  stretched  out  rigid,  —  then  relaxed.  His  breath 
came  once,  broken  and  quick,  —  it  was  his  last. 


THE    SON. 


Thou  art  all  obedience,  love,  and  goodness. 
I  dare  say  that  which  thousand  fathers  cannot, 
And  that 's  my  precious  comfort ;  never  son 
Was  in  the  way  of  more  celestial  rising. 

TVte  Old  Laic. 


TiiKKE  is  no  virtue  without  a  characteristic  beauty 
to  render  it  particularly  loved  of  the  good,  and  to 
make  the  bad  ashamed  of  their  neglect  of  it.  To  do 
what  is  right  argues  superior  taste,  as  well  as  morals  ; 
and  those  whose  practice  is  evil  have  a  certain  feeling 
of  inferiority  in  intellectual  power  and  enjoyment,  even 
where  they  take  no  concern  for  a  principle.  Doing  well 
has  something  more  in  it  than  the  mere  fulfilling  of  a 
duty.  It  is  a  cause  of  a  just  sense  of  elevation  of 
character ;  it  clears  and  strengthens  the  spirits  ;  it  gives 
higher  reaches  of  thought ;  it  widens  our  benevolence, 
and  makes  the  current  of  our  peculiar  affections  strong 
and  deep.  Never  yet  was  a  sacrifice  offered  to  a  ])rin- 
ciple,  that  was  not  more  than  made  up  to  ns  by  self- 
approval,  and  the  consideration  ol  wliat  our  degrada- 
tion would  have  been  hnd  wc  done  otherwise.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  a  pleasant  and  a  wise  thing,  then,  to  follow 
what  is  right,  even  when  W(;  only  g<i  along  with  our 
affections,  and  take  the  easy  way  of  llu;  better  propen- 
sitie.s  of  our  nature. 


376  THE    IDLE    MAN.  » 

The  world  is  sensible  of  these  truths,  let  it  act  as  it 
may.  It  is  not  because  of  his  integrity  alone  that  it 
relies  on  an  honest  man.  It  has  more  confidence  in 
his  judgement  and  wise  conduct,  in  the  long  run,  than 
in  the  schemes  of  those  of  greater  intellect,  who  go 
at  large  without  any  landmarks  of  principle ;  so  that 
virtue  seems  of  a  double  nature,  and  to  stand  often- 
times in  the  place  of  what  we  call  talents. 

This  reasoning,  or  rather  feeling,  of  the  world  is 
right ;  for  the  honest  and  good  man  only  falls  in  with 
the  order  of  nature,  which  is  grounded  in  truth,  and 
will  endure  along  with  it.  And  such  a  hold  upon  the 
world  has  a  man  of  this  character,  —  even  where  he 
has  not  been  called  upon  to  make  a  sacrifice  to  a  prin- 
ciple, or  to  take  a  stand  against  wrong,  but  has  merely 
avoided  running  into  vices,  and  suffered  himself  to  be 
borne  along  by  the  delightful  and  kind  affections  of 
private  life,  and  has  found  his  pleasures  in  the  duties  of 
home,  —  that  he  is  looked  up  to  with  respect,  as  well  as 
regarded  with  kindness.  We  attach  certain  notions  of 
refinement  to  his  thoughts,  and  of  depth  to  his  senti- 
ment ;  and  the  impression  he  makes  on  us  is  beautiful 
and  peculiar.  Although  we  may  have  nothing  in  par- 
ticular to  object  to  in  other  men,  and  though  they  may 
be  very  well  in  their  way,  still,  while  in  his  presence, 
they  strike  us  as  lacking  something,  we  can  hardly  say 
what,  —  a  certain  sensitive  delicacy  of  character  and 
manner,  wanting  which,  they  affect  us  as  more  or  less 
insensible,  and  even  coarse. 

No  creature  in  the  world  has  this  character  so  finely 
marked  in  him  as  a  respectful  and  affectionate  son,  — 
particularly  in  his  relation  to  his  mother.  Every  little 
attention  he  pays  her  is  not  only  an  expression  of  filial 
attachment,  and  a    grateful   acknowledgment  of  past 


THE    SON.  377 

cares,  but  is  an  evidence,  also,  of  a  tenderness  of  dis- 
position, which  moves  us  the  more,  because  not  so  nnich 
looked  on  as  an  essential  property  in  a  man's  character 
as  it  is  in  the  lisfht  of  an  added  "race  which  is  bestowed 
only  upon  a  few.  His  regards  do  not  appear  like  mere 
habits  of  duty,  nor  docs  his  watchfulness  of  his  moth- 
er's wishes  seem  like  taught  submission  to  her  will. 
They  are  the  native  courtesies  of  a  feeling  mind,  show- 
ing themselves  amid  stern  virtues  and  masculine  ener- 
gies, like  gleams  of  light  on  points  of  rocks.  They  are 
delightful  as  evidences  of  power  yielding  voluntary 
homage  to  the  delicacy  of  the  soul.  The  armed  knee 
is  bent,  and  the  heart  of  the  mailed  man  laid  bare. 

Feelings,  that  would  seem  to  be  at  variance  with 
each  other,  meet  together  and  harmonize  in  the  breast 
of  a  son.  Every  call  of  the  mother  which  he  answers 
to,  and  every  act  of  submission  which  he  performs,  are 
not  only  so  many  acknowledgments  of  her  authority, 
but  so  many  instances,  also,  of  kindness,  and  marks  of 
protecting  regard.  The  servant  and  defender,  the  child 
and  guardian,  are  mingled  in  him.  The  world  looks 
on  him  in  this  way ;  and  to  draw  upon  a  man  the  con- 
fidence, the  respect,  and  the  love  of  the  world,  it  is 
enough  to  say  of  him,  He  is  a  good  Son. 


«  The  sun  not  set  yet,  Thomas  ?  "  "  Not  quite, 
Sir.  It  blazes  through  the  trees  on  the  hill  yonder, 
as  if  their  branches  were  all  on  fire." 

Arthur  raised  himself  heavily  forward,  and,  with  his 
hat  still  over  his  brow,  turned  his  glazed  and  dim  eyes 
toward  the  setting  sun.  It  was  only  the  niglit  before 
that  he  had  heard  his  mother  was  ill,  and  (M)uld  survive 
bul  a  day  or  two.  II<'  had  li\ed  ntaily  ;ipurt  Irom  so- 
32' 


378  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

ciety,  and  being  a  lad  of  a  thoughtful,  dreamy  mind, 
had  made  a  world  to  himself.  His  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings were  so  much  in  it,  that,  except  in  relation  to  his 
own  home,  there  were  the  same  vague  notions  in  his 
brain  concerning  the  state  of  things  surrounding  him, 
as  we  have  of  a  foreign  land. 

The  iTiain  feeling  which  this  visionary  world  excited 
in  him  was  love ;  and  as  with  most  at  his  time  of  life, 
his  mind  had  formed  for  itself  a  being  suited  to  its 
own  fancies.  This  was  the  romance  of  life ;  and 
though  men,  with  minds  like  his,  oftentimes  make 
imagination  to  stand  in  the  place  of  real  existence, 
and  to  take  to  itself  as  deep  feeling  and  concern,  yet 
in  the  domestic  relations,  which  are  so  near,  and  usual, 
and  private,  they  feel  longer  and  more  deeply  than 
those  do  who  look  upon  their  homes  as  only  a  better 
part  of  the  world  which  they  belong  to.  Indeed,  to  an 
affectionate  and  good  man  of  a  visionary  cast,  like 
Arthur,  home  appears  to  be  even  something  more  than 
an  earnest  of  the  fulfilment  of  his  secretly  cherished 
hopes  and  wishes  ;  its  daily  acts  seem  to  prefigure  what 
he  is  looking  forward  to,  and,  while  idealized  by  him, 
to  impart,  in  a  sort,  to  his  ideal  both  distinctness  and 
substantiality. 

Arthur's  mother  was  peculiarly  dear  to  him,  in  hav- 
ing a  character  so  much  like  his  own.  For  though  the 
cares  and  attachments  of  life  had  long  ago  taken  place 
of  a  fanciful  existence  in  her,  yet  her  natural  turn  of 
mind  was  strong  enough  to  give  to  these  something  of 
the  romance  of  her  disposition.  This  had  led  to  a  more 
than  usual  openness  and  intimacy  between  him  and 
his  mother,  and  now  brought  to  his  remembrance  the 
hours  they  had  sat  together  by  the  fire-light,  when  he 
listened  to  her  mild  and  melancholy  voice,  as  she  spoke 


THE    SON. 


a79 


of  what  she  had  undergone  at  the  loss  of  her  parents 
and  husband.  Her  gentle  rebuke  of  his  faults  when  a 
boy,  her  atVeetionate  look  of  approval  when  he  had  done 
well,  her  care  that  he  should  be  a  just  man,  and  her 
motherly  anxiety  lest  the  world  should  go  hard  with 
him,  crowded  into  his  mind,  and  he  felt  as  if  every 
worldly  attachment  was  hereafter  to  be  a  vain  thing 
to  him. 

He  had  passed  the  night  before  his  journey  between 
tumultuous  grief  and  numb  insensibility.  Stepping 
into  the  carriage  with  a  slow,  weak  motion,  like  one 
who  was  quitting  his  sick-chamber  for  the  first  time, 
he  began  his  way  homeward.  As  he  lifted  his  eyes 
upward,  the  few  stars  that  were  here  and  there  over 
the  sky  seemed  to  look  down  in  pity,  and  shed  a  re- 
ligious and  healing  light  upon  him.  But  they  soon 
went  out,  one  after  another,  and,  as  the  last  faded  from 
his  sight,  it  was  as  if  something  good  and  holy  had 
forsaken  him.  The  faint  tint  in  the  east  soon  became 
a  ruddy  glow,  and  the  sun,  shooting  upward,  biurst 
over  every  living  thing  in  full  glory.  The  sight  went 
to  Arthur's  sick  heart,  as  if  it  were  in  mockery  of  his 
sorrow. 

Leaning  back  in  his  carriage,  with  his  hand  over 
his  eyes,  he  was  carried  along,  hardly  sensible  it  was 
day.  The  old  servant,  Thomas,  who  was  sitting  by 
his  side,  went  on  talking  in  a  low,  monotonous  tone; 
but  Arthur  only  heard  something  sounding  in  his  ears, 
scarcely  heeding  that  it  was  a  human  voice.  He  had 
a  sense  of  wearisomeness  from  the  motion  of  the  car- 
riage, but  in  all  ihings  else  tin-  day  passed  as  a  melan- 
choly dream. 

.VJniost  the  first  words  Ariliiir  sj)(»kc  were  those  1 
have  mentioned.      As   in-   Umkcd   oiU  npun  the  setting 


380 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


sun,  he  shuddered  and  turned  pale,  for  he  knew  tiie  hill 
near  him.  As  they  wound  round  it,  some  peculiar  old 
trees  appeared ;  and  he  was  in  a  few  minutes  in.  the 
midst  of  the  scenery  near  his  home.  The  river  before 
him,  reflecting  the  rich  evening  sky,  looked  as  if  poured 
out  from  a  molten  mine ;  and  the  birds,  gathering  in, 
were  shooting  across  each  other,  bursting  into  short, 
gay  notes,  or  singing  their  evening  songs  in  the  trees. 
It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  find  all  so  bright  and  cheerful, 
and  so  near  his  own  home  too.  His  horses'  hoofs 
struck  upon  the  old  wooden  bridge.  The  sound  went 
to  his  heart ;  for  it  was  here  his  mother  took  her  last 
leave  of  him,  and  blessed  him. 

As  he  passed  through  the  village,  there  was  a  feeling 
of  strangeness,  that  everything  should  be  just  as  it  was 
when  he  left  it.  An  undefined  thought  floated  in  his 
mind,  that  his  mother's  state  should  produce  a  visible 
change  in  whatever  he  had  been  familiar  with.  But 
the  boys  were  at  their  noisy  games  in  the  street,  the 
laborers  returning  together  from  then*  work,  and  the  old 
men  sitting  quietly  at  their  doors.  He  concealed  him- 
self as  well  as  he  could,  and  bade  Thomas  hasten  on. 

As  they  drew  near  the  house,  the  night  was  shutting 
in  about  it,  and  there  was  a  melancholy,  gusty  sound 
in  the  trees.  Arthur  felt  as  if  approaching  his  mother's 
tomb.  He  entered  the  parlour.  There  was  the  gloom 
and  stillness  of  a  deserted  house.  Presently  he  heard 
a  slow,  cautious  step  overhead.  It  was  in  his  mother's 
chamber.  His  sister  had  seen  him  from  the  window. 
She  hurried  down,  and  threw  her  arms  about  her 
brother's  neck,  without  uttering  a  word.  As  soon  as 
he  could  speak,  he  asked,  "  Is  she  alive  ?  "  —  he  could 
not  say,  my  mother.  "  She  is  sleeping,"  answered  his 
sister,  "and  must  not  know  to-night  that  you  are  here; 


THK    SON.  381 

she  is  too  weak  to  bear  it  now."  "  I  will  go  look  at  her, 
then,  while  she  sleeps,"'  said  he,  drawing  his  handker- 
chief from  his  face.  His  sister's  sympathy  had  made 
him  shed  the  first  tears  wliich  had  fallen  from  him  that 
day,  and  he  was  more  composed. 

He  entered  the  chamber  with  a  deep  and  still  awe 
upon  him;  and  as  he  ckew  near  his  mother's  bed-side, 
and  looked  on  her  pale,  placid  face,  he  scarcely  dared 
breathe,  lest  he  shoiild  disturb  the  secret  communion 
that  the  soul  was  holding  with  the  world  into  which  it 
was  soon  to  enter.  His  grief,  in  the  loss  which  he  was 
about  to  suffer,  was  forgotten  in  the  feeling  of  a  holy 
inspiration,  and  he  was,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  in- 
visible spirits  ascending  and  descending.  His  mother's 
lips  moved  slightly  as  she  uttered  an  indistinct  sound. 
He  drew  back,  and  his  sister  went  near  to  her,  and  she 
spoke.  It  was  the  same  gentle  voice  which  he  had 
known  and  felt  from  his  childhood.  The  exaltation  of 
his  soul  left  him ;  he  sank  down,  and  his  sorrow  went 
over  him  like  a  flood. 

The  next  day,  as  soon  as  his  mother  became  com- 
posed enough  to  see  him,  Arthur  went  into  her  cham- 
ber. She  stretched  out  her  leeble  hand,  and  turned 
toward  him  with  a  look  that  blessed  him.  It  was  the 
short  struggle  of  a  meek  spirit.  She  covered  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  and  the  tears  trickled  down  between  li<r 
pale,  thin  fingers.  As  soon  as  slu;  Ix'caiiK'  tran(|nil, 
she  spoke  of  the  gratitude  she  felt  at  being  spared  to 
see  him  before  she  died.  • 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Arthur.  But  \w  ronU\  not 
go  on  ;  his  voice  choked,  and  his  eyes  filled.  "  Do  not 
be  so  alllictcd,  Arthur,  at  the;  loss  of  inc.  We  are  iK)t 
to  part  for  ever.  Remember,  too,  how  comlortal)le 
and  liappy  you  have;  matle   my  days.      Heaven,   I  am 


382  THE    IDLE    MAi\. 

sure,  will  bless  so  good  a  son  as  you  have  been  to 
me.  You  will  have  that  consolation,  my  son,  which 
visits  too  few  sons,  perhaps,  —  you  will  be  able  to  look 
back  upon  your  conduct,  not  without  pain  only,  but 
with  a  sacred  joy.  And  think,  hereafter,  of  the  peace 
of  mind  you  give  me,  now  that  I  am  about  to  die, 
in  the  thought  that  I  am  leaving  your  sister  to  your 
love  and  care.  So  long  as  you  live,  she  will  find 
you  both  father  and  brother  to  her."  She  paused 
for  a  moment.  "  1  have  long  felt  that  I  could  meet 
death  with  composure  ;  but  I  did  not  know,  —  I  did  not 
know,  till  now  that  the  hour  is  come,  how  hard  a  thing 
it  would  be  to  leave  my  children." 

After  a  little  while  she  spoke  of  his  father,  and  said 
she  had  lived  in  the  belief  that  he  was  mindfid  of  her, 
and  with  the  conviction,  which  grew  stronger  as  death 
approached,  that  she  should  meet  him  in  another  world. 
She  spoke  but  little  more,  as  she  grew  weaker  and 
weaker  every  hour.  Arthur  sat  by  in  silence,  holding 
her  hand.  He  saw  that  she  was  sensible  he  was 
watching  her  countenance,  for  every  now  and  then  she 
opened  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  tried  to  smile. 

The  day  wore  slowly  away ;  the  sun  went  down, 
and  the  still  twilight  came  on ;  w^hile  nothing  was  heard 
but  the  ticking  of  the  watch,  tellhig  him,  with  a  resist- 
less power,  that  the  hour  was  drawing  nigh. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and  by  the  pale  light  of  the 
night-lamp  in  the  chimney-corner,  the  furniture  in  the 
room  threw  huge  and  uncouth  figures  over  the  walls. 
All  was  unsubstantial ;  and  the  shadowy  ministers  of 
death  appeared  gathering  round,  waiting  the  duty  of 
the  hour  appointed  them.  Arthur  shuddered  for  a  mo- 
ment with  snperstitious  awe  ;  but  the  solenm  elevation 
which  a  good  man  feels  at  the  sight  of  the  dying  took 
possession  of  him,  and  he  became  calm  again. 


THE    SON.  383 

The  approach  of  death  has  so  much  which  is  exalt- 
ing, that  our  grief  seems  for  the  time  suspended.  And 
could  one,  who  had  seen  Arthur  a  few  hours  before, 
now  have  looked  upon  the  grave  and  even  gi'and  rc- 
po^c  of  his  countenance,  he  would  hardly  have  known 
him. 

The  hue  of  death  was  fast  spreading  over  his  mother's 
face.  He  stooped  forward  to  catch  the  sound  of  her 
breathing.  It  grew  quick  and  faint.  — "  My  mother." 
—  She  opened  her  eyes  for  the  last  time  upon  him, 
and  a  faint  flush  passed  over  her  cheek,  —  there  was  the 
serenity  of  an  angel  in  her  look.  Her  hand  just  press- 
ed his  :  —  It  was  all  over. 

His  spirit  had  endured  to  its  utmost;  it  sank  down 
from  its  unearthly  heiglit ;  and  with  his  face  upon  his 
mother's  pillow,  he  wept  like  a  child.  —  He  arose  with 
a  softened  grief,  and,  stepping  into  an  adjoining  cham- 
ber, spoke  to  his  aunt.  "  It  is  past,"  said  he.  "  Is 
my  sister  asleep  ? — Well,  be  it  so:  let  her  have  rest; 
she  needs  it."  He  then  went  to  his  own  chamber,  and 
shut  himself  in. 

It  is  a  merciful  thing  that  the  sufTering  of  sensitive 
minds  makes  to  itself  a  relief.  Violent  grief  brings  on 
a  torpor  and  indistinctness,  as  from  long  watching.  It 
is  not  till  the  violence  of  allliction  has  subsided,  and 
gentle  and  soothing  thoughts  can  find  room  to  mix 
with  our  sorrow,  and  holy  consolations  can  minister  to 
us,  that  we  are  able  to  know  fully  our  loss,  and  sec 
clearly  what  has  been  torn  away  from  our  alFections. 
It  was  so  with  Arthur.  Unconnected  thoughts,  and 
melancholy  but  hall-fortned  images,  were  floating  in 
his  mind,  and  now  and  then  a  gh'ain  of  liiijht  would 
pass  thnjugh  it,  as  il  Ik-  had  Ijeen  in  a  troubled  trance, 
and  all  was  right  again.  His  worn  and  tired  feelings 
at  last  foimd  rest  in  sleep. 


384  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

It  is  an  impression  of  which  we  cannot  rid  ourselves 
if  we  would,  when  sitting  by  the  body  of  a  friend,  that 
he  has  still  a  consciousness  of  our  presence,  —  that, 
though  he  no  longer  has  a  concern  in  the  common 
things  of  the  world,  love  and  thought  are  still  there. 
The  face  which  we  had  been  familiar  with  so  long, 
when  it  was  all  life  and  motion,  seems  only  in  a  state 
of  rest.  We  know  not  how  to  make  it  real  to  our- 
selves, that  in  the  body  before  us  there  is  not  a  some- 
thing still  alive. 

Arthur  was  in  such  a  state  of  mind,  as  he  sat  alone 
in  the  room  by  his  mother,  the  day  after  her  death.  It 
was  as  if  her  soul  was  holding  communion  with  spirits 
in  paradise,  though  it  still  abode  in  the  body  that  lay 
before  him.  He  felt  as  if  sanctified  by  the  presence  of 
one  to  whom  the  other  world  had  been  opened,  —  as  if 
under  the  love  and  protection  of  one  made  holy.  The 
religious  reflections  which  his  mother  had  early  taught 
him  gave  him  strength ;  a  spiritual  composure  stole 
over  him,  and  he  found  himself  prepared  to  perform 
the  last  offices  to  the  dead. 

Is  it  not  enough  to  see  our  fnends  die,  and  part  with 
them  for  the  rest  of  our  days  ?  —  to  reflect  that  we 
shall  hear  their  voices  no  more,  and  that  they  will  never 
look  on  us  again?  —  to  see  that  turning  to  corruption 
which  was  but  just  now  alive,  and  eloquent,  and  beauti- 
ful with  sensations?  Are  our  sorrows  so  sacred  and 
peculiar  as  to  make  the  world  as  vanity  to  us,  and 
the  men  of  it  as  strangers,  and  shall  we  not  be  left  to 
our  afflictions  for  a  few  hours  ?  Must  we  be  brought 
out  at  such  a  time  to  the  concerned  or  careless  gaze  of 
those  we  know  not,  or  be  made  to  bear  the  formal 
proffers  of  consolation  from  acquaintance  who  will  go 
away  and  forget  it  all  ?     Shall  we  not  be  suffered,  for  a 


Tui;   so\.  385 

little  while,  private  and  healing  communion  with  the 
dead  ?  Must  the  kindred  stilhiess  and  gloom  of  onr 
dwelling  be  changed  for  the  show  of  the  pall,  tlie  talk 
of  the  passers-by,  and  the  broad  and  piercing  light  of 
the  common  sun  ?  Must  the  ceremonies  of  tlie  world 
wait  on  us,  even  to  our  friends'  open  graves  ? 

Wiien  the  hour  came,  Arthur  rose  with  a  firm  step 
and  fixed  eye,  though  liis  face  was  tremulous  with  the 
struggle  within  him.  He  went  to  his  sister,  and  took 
her  arm  within  his.  The  bell  struck.  Its  heavy,  undu- 
lating sound  rolled  forward  like  a  sea.  He  felt  a  beat- 
ing through  liis  frame,  which  shook  him  so  that  he 
reeled.  It  was  but  a  momentary  weakness.  He 
moved  on,  passing  those  who  surrounded  him  as  if 
they  had  been  shadows.  While  he  followed  the  slow 
hearse,  there  was  a  vacancy  in  his  eye,  as  it  rested  on 
the  coffin,  which  showed  him  hardly  conscious  of  what 
was  before  liim.  His  spirit  was  with  his  mother's. 
As  he  reached  the  grave,  he  shrunk  back  and  turned 
pale;  but  dropping  his  head  upon  his  breast,  and 
covering  his  face,  he  stood  motionless  as  a  statue  till 
the  service  was  over. 

He  had  gone  through  all  that  the  debt  to  society 
required  of  him.  For  painful  as  it  was,  and  ill  suited 
to  one  of  his  reserved  nature  and  holding  such  opinions 
upon  the  subject,  still  he  could  not  do  anything  that 
might  appear  to  the  world  like  a  want  of  reverence 
and  respect  for  his  mother.  The  scene  was  ended,  and 
tin-  inward  struggle  over;  and  now  that  he  was  left  to 
himself,  the  greatness  of  his  loss  came  up  full  and 
distinctly  before  liim. 

It  was  a  gloomy  and  chilly  evening  when  he  return- 
ed Ikjiiic.  As  he  entcrccl  ihe  house  from  which  his 
mother  had  gone  for  ever,  a  sense  of  dreary  emptiness 

vol.   I.  33 


386  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

oppressed  him,  as  if  his  abode  had  been  deserted  by 
every  living  thing.  He  walked  into  his  mother's 
chamber.  The  naked  bedstead,  and  the  chair  in  which 
she  used  to  sit,  were  all  that  were  left  in  the  room. 
As  he  threw  himself  back  into  the  chair,  he  groaned 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit.  A  feeling  of  forlorn- 
ness  came  over  him,  which  was  not  to  be  relieved  by 
tears.  She,  whom  he  watched  over  in  her  dying  horn", 
and  whom  he  had  talked  to  as  she  lay  before  him  in 
death  as  if  she  could  hear  and  answer  him,  had 
gone  from  him.  Nothing  was  left  for  the  senses  to 
fasten  fondly  on,  and  time  had  not  yet  taught  him  to 
think  of  her  only  as  a  spirit.  But  time  and  holy  en- 
deavours brought  this  consolation ;  and  the  little  of 
life  that  a  wasting  disease  left  him  was  passed  by  him, 
when  alone,  in  thoughtful  ti-anquillity ;  and  among  his 
friends  he  appeared  with  that  gentle  cheerfulness  which, 
before  his  mother's  death,  had  been  a  part  of  his 
nature. 


KEAN'S     ACTING. 


For,  doubtless,  that  indeed  according  to  art  is  most  eloiiueul,  which  turns  and  ap- 
proochea  nearest  to  nature,  from  whence  it  came. 

Milton. 

Professed  diversions!  cannot  these  escape  1 

We  ransack  tombs  for  pastirnr  ;  from  the  dust 
Call  up  the  sleeping  hero  ;  bid  him  tread 
The  scene  for  our  amusement:  How  lilce  Gods 
We  sit;  and,  wrapt  in  immortality, 
Shed  generous  tears  on  wretches  born  to  die  ; 
Their  fate  deploring,  to  forget  our  otai  > 

Young. 


In  looking  over  the  following  article,  published  wlien 
Kean  was  in  this  country,  the  lines  which  I  have  quot- 
ed from  Young  were  brought  forcibly  to  my  mind. 
There  was  something  painful  to  me  in  my  own  words, 
which  speak  of  him  as  living  and  acting;  for  tlu;  cur- 
tain is,  indeed,  dropped  now;  and  many,  who  heard 
and  saw  him  then,  have  gone  to  their  graves,  too.  It 
is  startling  to  have  our  thoughts  follow  into  eternity 
a  man  of  genius  and  fiery  [)assions ;  for  there  needs 
must  be  an  intensity  of  Life  there,  which  will  make 
this  world's  existence  seem  lo  us,  as  we  look  liack 
uj)()n  it,  little  more  than  a  dream  ol  life,  —  a  beginning 
to  be. 

What  a  sad  rcilection  upon  our  nature  it  is,  that  ;i!i 


388  THE    IDLE    WAX. 

amusement  so  intellectual  in  its  character  as  seeing  a 
play,  and  capable  of  being  made  to  administer  so 
much  to  our  intellectual  and  moral  state,  should  be 
so  tainted,  —  that  the  theatre  should  be  a  place  where 
congregate  licentious  appetites  and  passions,  and  from 
which  is  breathed  out  so  foul  an  atmosphere !  Such  as 
it  is,  I  am  now  done  "with  it.  I  would  sooner  forego 
the  intellectual  pleasure  I  might  receive  from  another 
Kean,  (were  there  ever  to  be  another  Kean,)  than  give 
countenance  to  vice,  by  going  where  infecting  and 
open  corruption  sits,  side  by  side,  with  the  seemly. 

It  is  not  to  read  a  lecture  to  others,  but  that  I  might 
not  appear  to  approve  of  what  I  disapprove,  that  I 
have  written  these  few  lines  ;  preferring  to  do  so,  to 
introducing  any  essential  change  into  the  main  article, 
for  the  sake  of  adapting  it  to  my  present  views.* 


I  HAD  scarcely  thought  of  the  theatre  for  some  years, 
when  Kean  arrived  in  this  country ;  and  it  was  more 
from  curiosity  than  from  any  other  motive,  that  I  went 
to  see,  for  the  first  time,  the  great  actor  of  the  age.  I 
was  soon  lost  to  the  recollection  of  being  in  a  theatre, 
or  looking  upon  a  great  display  of  the  "  mimic  art." 
The  simplicity,  earnestness,  and  sincerity  of  his  acting 
made  me  forgetful  of  the  fiction,  and  bore  me  away 
with  the  power  of  reality  and  truth.  If  this  be  acting, 
said  I,  as  I  returned  home,  I  may  as  well  make  the 
theatre  my  school,  and  henceforward  study  natm'e  at 
second  hand. 

*  Since  tlie  above  was  lirst  publislicd,  a  reform  has  been  effected  in  and 
around  some  of  our  theatres,  wliich,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  become  gen- 
eral, and  remove  this  objection  to  the  most  intellectual  of  public  amuse- 
ment.'7. 


kean's  acting.  389 

How  can  I  describe  one  who  is  almost  as  lull  of 
beauties  as  nature  itself,  —  Avho  grows  upon  us  the 
more  avc  become  acquainted  with  him,  and  makes  us 
sensible  that  the  first  time  we  saw  him  in  any  part, 
however  much  he  may  have  moved  us,  we  had  but  a 
partial  apprehension  of  the  many  excellences  of  his 
acting  ?  We  cease  to  consider  it  as  a  mere  amusement. 
It  is  an  intellectual  feast;  and  he  who  goes  to  it  witli  a 
disposition  and  capacity  to  relish  it,  will  receive  from 
it  more  nourishment  for  his  mind,  than  he  would  be 
likely  to  do  in  many  other  ways  in  tw^ice  the  time. 
Our  faculties  are  opened  and  enlivened  by  it ;  our  re- 
flections and  recollections  are  of  an  elevated  kind ;  and 
the  voice  which  is  sounding  in  our  ears,  long  after  we 
have  left  him,  creates  an  inward  harmony  which  is  for 
our  good. 

Kean,  in  truth,  stands  very  much  in  that  relation 
to  other  players  whom  we  have  seen,  that  Shakspeare 
does  to  other  dramatists.  One  player  is  called  classi- 
cal ;  another  makes  fine  points  here,  and  another  there ; 
Kean  makes  more  fine  points  than  all  of  them  together; 
but  in  him  these  are  only  little  prominences,  showing 
their  bright  heads  above  a  beautifully  undulated  sur- 
face. A  continual  change  is  going  on  in  him,  par- 
taking of  the  nature  of  the  varying  scenes  he  is 
pasr-ing  through,  and  the  many  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  are  shifting  within  him. 

In  a  clear  autumnal  day  we  may  see,  here  and  there, 
a  massed  white  cloud  edged  with  a  blazing  brightness 
against  a  blue  sky,  and  now  and  then  a  dark  pine 
swinging  its  top  in  the  wind,  with  the  melancholy 
sound  of  the  sea ;  but  who  can  note  the  shifting  and 
untiring  play  of  thr*  leaves  of  tin;  wood,  and  their  pass- 
ing hues,  whfii  each  r>ecms  a  living  thing  full   of  scnsa- 


390  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

tions,  and  happy  in  its  rich  attire  ?  A  sound,  too,  of 
universal  harmony  is  in  our  ears,  and  a  wide-spread 
beauty  before  our  eyes,  which  we  cannot  define ;  yet  a 
joy  is  in  our  hearts.  Our  delight  increases  in  these, 
day  after  day,  the  longer  we  give  ourselves  to  them,  till 
at  last  we  become,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  the  existence 
without  us.  So  it  is  with  natural  characters.  They 
grow  upon  us  imperceptibly,  till  we  become  bound  up 
in  them,  we  scarce  know  when  or  how.  So,  in  its  de- 
gree, it  will  fare  with  the  actor  who  is  deeply  filled 
with  nature,  and  is  perpetually  throwing  off"  her  beauti- 
ful evanescences.  Instead  of  becoming  tired  of  him,  as 
we  do,  after  a  time,  of  others,  he  will  go  on  giving 
something  which  will  be  new  to  the  observing  mind, 
and  will  keep  the  feelings  alive,  because  their  action 
will  be  natural.  I  have  no  doubt,  that,  excepting  those 
who  go  to  a  play  as  children  look  into  a  show-box,  to 
admire  and  exclaim  at  distorted  figures,  and  raw,  un- 
harmonious  colours,  there  is  no  man  of  a  moderately 
warm  temperament,  and  with  a  tolerable  share  of  in- 
sight into  human  nature,  who  would  not  find  his  inter- 
est in  Kean  increasing  with  a  study  of  him.  It  is  very 
possible  that  the  excitement  would  lessen,  but  there 
would  be  a  quieter  pleasvire,  instead  of  it,  stealing 
upon  him,  as  he  became  famiUar  with  the  character  of 
the  acting. 

Taken  within  his  range  of  characters,  the  versatility 
of  his  playing  is  striking.  He  seems  not  the  same 
being,  now  representing  Richard,  and,  again,  Hamlet; 
but  the  two  characters  alone  appear  before  you,  and 
as  distinct  individuals  who  had  never  known  or  heard 
of  each  other.  So  does  he  become  the  character  he 
is  to  represent,  that  we  have  sometimes  thought  it  a 
reason  why  he  was  not  universally  better  Uked  here, 


kean's  acting.  391 

in  Richard  ;  and  that  because  the  player  did  not  make 
himself  a  little  more  visible,  he  must  needs  bear  a  share 
of  our  dislike  of  the  cruel  king.  And  this  may  be  still 
more  the  case,  as  his  construction  of  the  character, 
whether  right  or  wrong,  creates  in  us  an  unmixed  dis- 
like of  Richard,  till  the  anguish  of  his  mind  makes 
him  the  object  of  pity ;  from  which  time,  to  the  close, 
all  allow  that  he  plays  the  part  better  than  any  one  has 
done  before  him. 

In  his  highest-wTought  passion,  when  the  limbs  and 
muscles  are  alive  and  quivering,  and  his  gestures  hur- 
ried and  vehement,  nothing  appears  ranted  or  over- 
acted ;  because  he  makes  us  feel,  that,  with  all  this, 
there  is  something  still  within  him  struggling  for  utter- 
ance. The  very  breaking  and  harshness  of  his  voice, 
in  these  parts,  help  to  this  impression,  and  make  up, 
in  a  good  degree,  for  this  defect,  if  it  be  a  defect  here. 

Though  he  is  on  the  very  verge  of  truth  in  his  pas- 
sionate parts,  he  does  not  fall  into  extravagance  ;  but 
runs  along  the  dizzy  edge  of  the  roaring  and  beating 
sea,  with  feet  as  sure  as  we  walk  our  parlours.  We 
feel  that  he  is  safe,  for  some  preternatural  spirit  upholds 
him  ap  it  hurries  him  onward;  and  while  all  is  uptorn 
and  tossing  in  the  whirl  of  the  passions,  we  see  that 
there  is  a  power  and  order  over  the  whole. 

A  man  has  feelings  sometimes  which  can  only  be 
breathed  out;  there  is  no  utterance  for  them  in  words. 
1  had  hardly  written  this  when  the  terrible  "Ha!" 
with  which  Kean  makes  Lear  hail  Cornwall  and  Re- 
gan as  they  enter  in  the  fourth  .scene  of  the  second  act, 
came  to  my  mind.  That  cry  seemed  at  the  time  to 
takf  iiH-  ii|)  and  sweep  me  aloiiL^  in  its  wild  swell. 
No  description  in  llir  worM  could  l,mv<'  :i  tolerably 
clear  notion  of  it;  —  it  musi  be  lonned,  as  well  as  it 
mav  be.  froiij  what  i-  h  re  -i.ild  (,\   \[^  reflect. 


392  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Kean's  playing  is  sometimes  but  the  outbreaking  of 
inarticulate  sounds  ;  —  the  throttled  struggle  of  rage, 
and  the  choking  of  grief,  —  the  broken  laugh  of  ex- 
treme suffering,  when  the  mind  is  ready  to  deliver  itself 
over  to  an  insane  joy,  —  the  utterance  of  over-full  love, 
which  cannot  and  would  not  speak  in  express  words, 
and  that  of  wildering  grief,  which  blanks  all  the  fac- 
ulties of  man. 

No  other  player  whom  T  have  heard  has  attempted 
these,  except  now  and  then ;  and  should  any  one  have 
made  the  trial  in  the  various  ways  in  which  Kean 
gives  them,  probably  he  would  have  failed.  Kean 
thrills  us  with  them,  as  if  they  were  wrung  from  him  in 
his  agony.  They  have  not  the  appearance  of  study 
or  artifice.  The  truth  is,  that  the  labour  of  a  mind  of 
his  genius  constitutes  its  existence  and  delight.  It  is 
not  like  the  toil  of  ordinary  men  at  their  task-work. 
What  shows  effort  in  them  comes  from  him  with  the 
freedom  and  force  of  nature. 

Some  object  to  the  frequent  use  of  such  sounds, 
and  to  others  they  are  quite  shocking.  But  those  who 
permit  themselves  to  consider  that  there  are  really  vio- 
lent passions  in  man's  nature,  and  that  they  utter  them- 
selves a  little  differently  from  our  ordinary  feelings, 
understand  and  feel  their  language  as  they  speak  to  us 
in  Kean.  Probably  no  actor  has  conceived  passion 
with  the  intenseness  and  life  that  he  does.  It  seems 
to  enter  into  him  and  possess  him,  as  evil  spirits  pos- 
sessed men  of  old.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  some, 
who  have  sat  very  contentedly,  year  after  year,  and 
called  the  face-making,  which  they  have  seen,  expres- 
sion, and  the  stage-stiide,  dignity,  and  the  noisy  decla- 
mation, and  all  the  rhodomontade  of  acting,  energy  and 
passion,  complain  that  Kean   i^;  apt  to  be  extravagant; 


kka.n's  At  riMi.  393 

when  ill  truth  he  seems  to  be  little  iiioiv  than  a  simple 
personation  of  the  feeling  or  passion  to  be  expressed  at 
the  time. 

It  has  been  so  common  a  saying,  that  Lear  is  the 
most  dilficuh  of  characters  to  personate,  that  we  had 
taken  it  for  granted  no  man  could  play  it  so  as  to 
satisfy  us.  Perhaps  it  is  the  hardest  to  represent. 
Yet  the  part  which  has  generally  been  supposed  the 
most  diliicult,  the  insanity  of  Lear,  is  scarcely  more  so 
than  that  of  the  choleric  old  king.  Inctlicient  rage  is 
almost  always  ridiculous;  and  an  old  man,  with  a 
broken-down  body  and  a  mind  falling  in  pieces  from 
the  violence  of  its  uncontrolled  passions,  is  in  constant 
danger  of  exciting,  along  with  our  pity,  a  lecling  of 
contempt.  It  is  a  chance  matter  to  which  we  may 
be  most  moved.  And  this  it  is  wliich  makes  the  open- 
ing of  Lear  so  dillicitlt. 

We  may  as  well  notice  here  the  objection  which 
some  make  to  the  abrupt  violence  with  which  Kean 
begins  in  Lear.  If  this  be  a  fault,  it  is  Shakspeare, 
and  not  Kean,  who  is  to  blame ;  for,  no  doubt,  he 
has  conceived  it  according  to  his  autiior.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  mistake  lies  in  this  case,  where  it  does  in 
most  others,  with  those  who  put  themselves  into  the 
seat  of  judgement  to  pass  upon  great  men. 

In  most  instances,  Shakspeare  has  given  us  the 
gradual  growth  of  a  passion,  with  such  111  tie  acconi- 
panimenls  as  agree  with  it,  and  go  to  make  up  ihe 
whole  man.  In  Lt-ar,  his  object  being  to  represent 
the  begiiming  and  course  of  insanity,  he  has  jjroperly 
enough  gone  l)Ut  a  little  l)ack  of  it,  and  introduced  to 
us  an  old  man  of  good  feelings  enough,  but  t)ne  who 
liad  lived  without  any  trui'  principle  of  conduct,  and 
whose  unruled  passions  had  grown  strong  with  age,  and 


394  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

were  ready,  upon  a  disappointment,  to  make  shipwreck 
of  an  intellect  never  strong.  To  bring  this  about,  he 
begins  with  an  abruptness  rather  unusual ;  and  the  old 
king  rushes  in  before  us,  with  his  passions  at  their 
height,  and  tearing  him  like  fiends. 

Kean  gives  this  as  soon  as  the  fitting  occasion  offers 
itself.  Had  he  put  more  of  melancholy  and  depression 
and  less  of  rage  into  the  character,  we  should  have 
been  much  puzzled  at  his  so  suddenly  going  mad.  It 
would  have  required  the  change  to  have  been  slower ; 
and  besides,  his  insanity  must  have  been  of  another 
kind.  It  must  have  been  monotonous  and  complain- 
ing, instead  of  continually  varying ;  at  one  time  full  of 
grief,  at  another  playful,  and  then  wild  as  the  winds 
that  roared  about  him,  and  fiery  and  sharp  as  the  light- 
ning that  shot  by  him.  The  truth  with  which  he  con- 
ceived this  was  not  finer  than  his  execution  of  it.  Not 
for  a  moment,  in  his  utmost  violence,  did  he  suffer 
the  imbecility  of  the  old  man's  anger  to  touch  upon 
the  ludicrous,  when  nothing  but  the  justest  conception 
and  feeling  of  the  character  could  have  saved  him 
from  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lear  is  a  study  for  one  who 
w^ould  make  himself  acquainted  w^ith  the  workings  of 
an  insane  mind.  And  it  is  hardly  less  true,  that  the 
acting  of  Kean  was  an  embodying  of  these  workings. 
His  eye,  when  his  senses  are  first  forsaking  him,  giving 
an  inquiring  look  at  what  he  saw,  as  if  all  before  him 
^vas  undergoing  a  strange  and  bewildering  change 
which  confused  his  brain, — the  wandering,  lost  motions 
of  his  hands,  which  seemed  feeling  for  something  famil- 
iar to  them,  on  which  they  might  take  hold  and  be 
assured  of  a  safe  reality,  —  the  under  monotone  of  his 
voice,  as  if  he   was   questioning   his  own  being,  and 


kean's  actixo.  395 

what  surrounded  liim,  —  the  continuous,  but  slight, 
oscillating  motion  of  the  ])o(ly,  —  all  these  expressed, 
with  fearful  truth,  the  bewildered  state  of  a  mind  fast 
unsettling,  and  making  vain  and  weak  etVorts  to  find  its 
way  back  to  its  wonted  reason.  There  was  a  childish, 
fet'ble  gladness  in  the  eye,  and  a  half-piteous  smile 
about  the  mouth,  at  times,  which  one  could  scarce  look 
upon  without  tears.  As  the  derangement  increased 
upon  him,  his  eye  lost  its  notice  of  objects  about  him, 
wandering  over  things  as  if  he  saw  them  not,  and  fas- 
tening upon  the  creatures  of  his  crazed  brain.  The 
helpless  and  delighted  fondness  with  which  he  clings 
to  Edgar,  as  an  insane  brother,  is  another  instance  of 
the  justness  of  Kean's  conceptions.  Nor  does  he  lose 
the  air  of  insanity,  even  in  the  fine  moralizing  parts, 
and  where  he  inveighs  against  the  corruptions  of  the 
world.     There  is  a  madness  even  in  his  reason. 

The  violent  and  immediate  changes  of  the  passions 
in  Lear,  so  difficult  to  manage  without  jarring  upon  us, 
are  given  by  Kean  with  a  spirit  and  with  a  fitness  to 
nature  which  we  had  hardly  thought  possible.  These 
are  equally  well  done  both  before  and  after  the  loss  of 
reason.  The  most  difllcult  scene,  in  this  respect,  is  the 
last  interview  between  Lear  and  his  daughters,  Goneril 
and  Regan,  —  (and  how  wonderfully  does  Kean  carry  it 
through  I)  —  the  scene  which  ends  with  the  horrid  shout 
and  cry  with  which  he  runs  out  mad  from  their  pres- 
ence, as  if  the  very  brain  had  taken  fire. 

The  last  scene  which  we  are  allowed  to  have  of 
Shakspeare's  Lear,  for  the  simply  pathetic,  was  played 
by  Kean  with  unmatched  power.  We  sink  down  help- 
less under  the  oppressive  grief.  It  lies  like  a  dead 
weight  upon  our  hearts.  We  are  denied  even  the  re- 
lir-f   of   tears;   and    rin-    thankful    for   tlie   shudder   that 


396  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

seizes  us  when  he  kneels  to  his  daughter  in  the  deplor- 
ing weakness  of  his  crazed  grief. 

It  is  lamentable  that  Kean  should  not  be  allowed 
to  show  his  unequalled  powers  in  the  last  scene  of 
Lear,  as  Shakspeare  wrote  it ;  and  that  this  mighty 
work  of  genius  should  be  profaned  by  the  miserable, 
mawkish  sort  of  by-play  of  Edgar's  and  Cordelia's 
loves.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  impertinence  of  the 
man  who  made  the  change,  but  the  folly  of  those  who 
sanctioned  it. 


"When  I  began,  I  had  no  other  intention  than  that 
of  giving  a  few  general  impressions  made  upon  me 
by  Kean's  acting ;  but,  falling  accidentally  upon  his 
Lear,  I  have  been  led,  unawares,  into  particulars.  It 
is  only  to  take  these  as  some  of  the  instances  of  his 
powers  in  Lear,  and  then  to  think  of  him  as  not  in- 
feriour  in  his  other  characters,  and  some  notion  may  be 
formed  of  the  effect  of  Kean's  playing  upon  those  who 
understand  and  like  him.  Neither  this,  nor  anything  I 
might  add,  would  be  likely  to  reach  his  great  and  vari- 
ous powers. 

If  it  could  be  said  of  any  one,  it  might  be  said  of 
Kean,  that  he  does  not  fall  behind  his  author,  but 
stands  forward,  the  living  representative  of  the  charac- 
ter he  has  drawn.  When  he  is  not  playing  in  Shak- 
speare, he  fills  up  where  his  author  is  wanting;  and 
when  in  Shakspeare,  he  gives  not  only  what  is  set 
down,  but  whatever  the  situation  and  circumstances 
attendant  upon  the  being  he  personates  would  natural- 
ly call  forth.  He  seems,  at  the  time,  to  have  possessed 
himself  of  Shakspeare's  imagination,  and  to  have  given 
it  body  and  form.  Read  any  scene  in  Shakspeare,  — 
for  instance,  the  last  of  Lear  that  is  played,  —  and  see 


kean's  acting.  397 

how  few  words  arc  there  set  down,  and  then  remem- 
ber how  Kean  fills  it  out  witli  varied  and  muhiplied 
expression  and  circumstances,  and  the  truth  of  tills 
remark  will  be  obvious  enouirh.  There  are  few  men, 
I  believe,  let  them  have  studied  the  plays  of  Shuk- 
speare  ever  so  attentively,  who  can  see  Kean  in  tlieni 
without  confessing  that  he  has  helped  them  to  a  triTcr 
and  fuller  conception  of  the  author,  notwithstanding 
what  their  own  labours  had  done  for  them. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  in  what  character  Kean  plays 
best.  He  so  fits  himself  to  each  in  turn,  that  if  the 
effect  he  produces  at  one  time  is  less  than  at  another, 
it  is  because  of  some  inferiority  in  stage-effect  in  the 
character.  Othello  is  probably  the  character  best 
adapted  to  stage-effect,  and  Kean  has  an  uninteiTupt- 
ed  power  over  us  in  playing  it.  When  he  commands, 
we  are  awed ;  when  his  face  is  sensitive  with  love,  and 
love  thrills  in  his  soft  tones,  all  that  our  imaginations 
had  pictured  to  us  is  realized.  His  jealousy,  his  hate, 
his  fixed  purposes,  are  terrific  and  deadly;  and  the 
groans  wrung  from  him  in  his  grief  have  the  pathos 
and  anguish  of  Esau's,  when  he  stood  before  his  old, 
blind  father,  and  sent  up  "  an  exceeding  bitter  cry." 

Again,  in  Richard,  how  does  he  hurry  forward  to 
his  object,  sweeping  away  all  between  him  and  it! 
The  world  and  its  aftiiirs  are  nothing  to  him,  till  lie 
gains  his  end.  He  is  all  life,  and  a(;tion,  and  haste,  — 
he  fills  every  part  of  the  stage,  and  seems  to  do  all 
that  is  done. 

I  have  before  said  that  his  voice  is  harsh  and  break- 
ing in  his  high  tones,  in  his  rage,  but  that  this  defect 
is  of  little  consequence  in  such  jilaces.  Xor  is  it  well 
suited  to  the  more  declamatory  parts.  This,  again,  is 
scarce  worth  (•(nisidering  ;  for  how  verv  little  is  there  of 

vol..   I.  ii4 


398  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

mere  declamation  in  good   English  plays!     But  it  is 

one  of  the  finest  voices  in  the  world  for  all  the  passions 

and  feelings  which  can  be  uttered  in  the  middle  and 

lower  tones.     In  Lear,  — 

"  If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it." 

And  again,  — 

"  You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss." 

Why  should  I  cite  passages  ?  Can  any  man  open 
upon  the  scene  in  which  these  are  contained,  without 
Kean's  piteous  looks  and  tones  being  present  to  him  ? 
And  does  not  the  mere  remembrance  of  them,  as  he 
reads,  bring  tears  into  his  eyes  ?  Yet,  once  more,  in 
OtheUo,  — 

"  Had  it  pleased  Heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction,"  &c. 

In  the  passage  beginning  with 

"0,  now  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind,"  — 

there  was  "  a  mysterious  confluence  of  sounds  "  pass- 
ing oif  into  infinite  distance,  and  every  thought  and 
feeling  within  him  seemed  travelling  with  them. 

How  graceful  he  is  in  Othello  I  It  is  not  a  practised, 
educated  grace,  but  the  "  unbought  grace "  of  his 
genius,  uttering  itself  in  its  beauty  and  grandeur  in 
the  movements  of  the  outward  man.  When  he  says 
to  lago  so  touchingly,  "  Leave  me,  leave  me,  lago," 
and,  turning  from  him,  walks  to  the  back  of  the  stage, 
raising  his  hands,  and  bringing  them  down  upon  his 
head,  with  clasped  fingers,  and  stands  thus  with  his 
back  to  us,  there  is  a  grace  and  majesty  in  his  figure 
which  we  look  on  with  admiration. 

Talking  of  these  things  in  Kean  is  something  like 
reading  the  "  Beauties  of   Shakspeare  "  ;  for  he  is  as 


kean's  acting.  399 

true  in  the  subordinate  as  in  the  great  parts.  But  he 
must  be  content  to  share  with  other  men  of  genius, 
and  think  himself  fortunate  if  one  in  a  hundred  sees 
his  lesser  beauties,  and  marks  the  truth  and  delicacy  of 
his  under-playing.  For  instance,  when  he  has  no  share 
in  the  action  going  on,  he  is  not  busy  in  putting  him- 
self into  attitudes  to  draw  attention,  but  stands  or  sits 
in  a  simple  posture,  like  one  with  an  engaged  mind. 
His  countenance,  too,  is  in  a  state  of  ordinary  repose, 
with  bitt  a  slight,  general  expression  of  the  character 
of  his  thoughts  ;  for  this  is  all  the  face  shows,  when 
the  mind  is  taken  up  in  silence  with  its  own  reflec- 
tions. It  does  not  assume  marked  or  violent  expres- 
sions, as  in  soliloijuy.  When  a  man  gives  utterance 
to  his  thoughts,  though  alone,  the  charmed  rest  of  the 
body  is  broken  ;  he  speaks  in  his  gestures  too,  and  the 
countenance  is  put  into  a  sympathizing  action. 

I  was  first  struck  with  this  in  his  Hamlet ;  for  the 
deep  and  quiet  interest,  so  marked  in  Hamlet,  made 
the  justness  of  Kean's  playing,  in  this  respect,  the  more 
obvious.  And  since  then,  I  have  observed  him  atten- 
tively, and  have  found  the  same  true  acting  in  iiis  other 
characters. 

This  rigiit  conception  of  situation  and  its  general 
efl'ect  seems  to  require  almost  as  much  genius  as  his 
conceptions  of  his  characters,  and,  indeed,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  one  with  them.  He  deserves  j)raise  for  it ; 
for  there  is  so  much  of  the  subtilty  of  nature  in  it,  if 
(MU'  may  so  speak,  that  while  a  few  are  able,  with  his 
help,  to  put  themselves  into  the  situation,  and  perceive 
the  justness  of  his  actinia  in  it,  the  rest,  both  those  who 
like  him  upon  llic  whole,  as  well  as  those  who  |)rofess 
to  see  little  in  him,  will  be  apt  to  let  it  pass  by  without 
ob.'serving  it. 


400  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

Like  most  men,  however,  Kean  receives  a  partial 
reward,  at  least,  for  his  sacrifice  of  the  praise  of  the 
many  to  what  he  feels  to  be  the  truth.  For  when  he 
passes  from  the  state  of  natural  repose,  even  into  that 
of  gentle  motion  and  ordinary  discourse,  he  is  imme- 
diately filled  with  a  spirit  and  life,  which  he  makes 
every  one  feel  who  is  not  armour-proof  against  him. 
This  helps  to  the  sparkling  brightness  and  warmth  of 
his  playing,  the  grand  secret  of  which,  like  that  of 
colours  in  a  pictui'e,  lies  in  a  just  contrast.  We  can 
all  speculate  concerning  the  general  rules  upon  this ; 
but  when  the  man  of  genius  gives  us  their  results,  how 
few  are  there  who  can  trace  them  out  with  an  obser- 
vant eye,  or  look  with  a  discerning  satisfaction  upon 
the  great  whole.  Perhaps  this  very  beauty  in  Kean 
has  helped  to  an  opinion,  which,  no  doubt,  is  true,  that 
he  is,  at  times,  too  sharp  and  abrupt.  1  well  remember, 
while  once  looking  at  a  picture  in  which  the  shadow 
of  a  mountain  fell,  in  strong  outline,  upon  a  part  of  a 
stream,  I  overheard  some  quite  sensible  people  ex- 
pressing their  wonder  that  the  artist  should  have  made 
the  water  of  two  colours,  seeing  it  was  all  one  and  the 
same  thing. 

Instances  of  Kean's  keeping  of  situations  were  strik- 
ing in  the  opening  of  the  trial  scene  in  The  Iron  Chest, 
and  in  Hamlet,  when  the  father's  ghost  tells  the  story 
of  his  death. 

The  composure  to  which  he  is  bent  up,  in  the  former, 
must  be  present  with  all  who  saw  him.  And,  though 
from  the  immediate  purpose,  shall  I  pass  by  the  start- 
ling and  appalling  change,  when  madness  seized  upon 
his  brain,  with  the  swiftness  and  power  of  a  fanged 
monster?  Wonderfully  as  this  last  part  was  played, 
we  cannot  well  imagine  how  much  the  previous  calm, 


kEAN's    ACTING.  401 

and  the  suddenness  of  the  nnlookod-i'or  change  from 
it,  added  to  the  terrour  of  the  scene.  The  temple 
stood  fixed  on  its  foundations  ;  the  earthquake  shook 
it,  and  it  was  a  heap.  Is  this  one  of  Kean's  violent 
contrasts  ? 

"While  Kean  listened,  in  Hamlet,  to  the  father's  story, 
the  entire  man  was  absorbed  in  deep  attention,  min- 
gled with  a  tempered  awe.  His  posture  was  simple, 
with  a  slight  inclination  forward.  The  spirit  was 
the  spirit  of  his  father,  whom  he  had  loved  and  rever- 
enced, and  who  was  to  that  moment  ever  present  in 
his  thoughts.  The  first  superstitious  terrour  at  meeting 
him  had  passed  off'.  The  account  of  his  father's  ap- 
pearance given  him  by  Horatio  and  the  watch,  and  his 
having  followed  him  some  distance,  had,  in  a  degree, 
familiarized  him  to  the  sight,  and  he  stood  before  us 
in  the  stillness  of  one  who  was  to  hear,  then  or  never, 
what  was  to  be  told,  but  without  that  eager  reaching 
forward  which  other  players  give,  and  which  would  be 
right,  perhaps,  in  any  character  but  that  of  Hamlet, 
who  connects  the  past  and  what  is  to  come  with  the 
present,  and  mingles  reliection  with  his  immediate 
feehngs,  however  deep. 

As  an  instance  of  Kean's  familiar,  and,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  temi,  domestic  acting,  the  first  scene  in 
the  fourth  act  of  his  Sir  Giles  Overreach  may  be  taken. 
His  manner  at  meeting  Lovell  and  through  the  conver- 
sation with  him,  the  way  in  which  he  turns  his  chair 
and  leans  upon  it,  were  as  easy  and  natural  as  they 
could  have  been  in  real  life,  had  Sir  Giles  been  actually 
existing,  and  engaged  at  that  moment  in  conversation 
in  Lovell's  room. 

It  is  in  these  things,  scarcely  less  than  in  the  more 
prominent  parts  of  his  playing,  tliat   ivean  shows  him- 


402  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

self  the  great  actor.  He  must  always  make  a  deep  im- 
pression ;  but  to  suppose  the  world  at  large  capable  of 
a  right  estimate  of  his  different  powers,  would  be  form- 
ing a  judgement  against  every-day  proof.  The  grad- 
ual manner  in  which  the  character  of  his  playing  has 
opened  upon  me  satisfies  me,  that  in  acting,  as  in 
everything  else,  however  deep  may  be  the  first  efi'ect  of 
genius  upon  us,  we  come  slowly,  and  through  study,  to 
a  perception  of  its  minute  beauties  and  delicate  char- 
acteristics. After  all,  the  greater  part  of  men  seldom 
get  beyond  the  first  general  impression. 

As  there  must  needs  go  a  modicum  of  fault-finding 
along  with  commendation,  it  may  be  well  to  remark, 
that  Kean  plays  his  hands  too  much  at  times,  and 
moves  about  the  dress  over  his  breast  and  neck  too 
frequently  in  his  hurried  and  impatient  passages,  and 
that  he  does  not  always  adhere  with  sufficient  accuracy 
to  the  received  readings  of  Shakspeare,  and  that  the 
effect  would  be  greater,  upon  the  whole,  were  he  to  be 
more  sparing  of  sudden  changes  from  violent  voice  and 
gesticulation  to  a  low  conversation-tone  and  subdued 
manner. 

His  frequent  use  of  these  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is 
with  good  effect,  for  Sir  Giles  is  playing  his  part ;  so, 
too,  in  Lear,  for  Lear's  passions  are  gusty  and  shifting; 
but,  in  the  main,  it  is  a  kind  of  playing  too  marked  and 
striking  to  bear  so  frequent  repetition,  and  had  better 
sometimes  be  spared,  where,  considered  alone,  it  might 
be  properly  enough  used,  for  the  sake  of  bringing  it  in 
at  some  other  place  with  greater  effect. 

It  is  well  to  speak  of  these  defects,  for  though  the 
little  faults  of  genius,  in  themselves  considered,  but 
slightly  affect  those  who  can  enter  into  its  true  char- 
acter,  yet    such    persons    are    made    impatient    at  the 


kean's  acting.  403 

thought,  that  an  opportunity  is  given  those  to  earp  who 
know  not  how  to  commend. 

Though  I  have  taken  up  a  good  deal  of  room,  I 
must  end  without  speaking  of  many  things  which  oc- 
cur to  me.  Some  will  be  of  the  opinion  that  1  have 
already  said  enough.  Thinking  of  Kean  as  I  do,  I 
could  not  honestly  have  said  less ;  for  I  hold  it  to  be 
a  low  and  wicked  thing  to  keep  back  from  merit  of  any 
kind  its  due,  —  and,  with  Steele,  that  "  there  is  some- 
thing wonderful  in  the  narrowness  of  those  minds 
which  can  be  pleased,  and  be  barren  of  bounty  to 
those  who  please  them." 

Although  the  self-important,  out  of  self-concern,  give 
praise  sparingly,  and  the  mean  measure  theirs  by  their 
hkings  or  dislikings  of  a  man,  and  the  good  even  are 
often  slow  to  allow  the  talents  of  the  faulty  their  due, 
lest  they  bring  the  evil  into  repute  ;  yet  it  is  the  wiser 
as  well  as  the  honester  course,  not  to  disparage  an  ex- 
cellence because  it  neighbours  upon  a  fault,  nor  to  take 
away  from  another  what  is  his  of  right,  with  a  view 
to  our  own  name,  nor  to  rest  our  character  for  discern- 
iiieni  upon  the  promptings  of  an  unkind  heart.  Where 
God  has  iiot  feared  to  bestow  great  j)owers,  we  may 
not  fear  giving  them  their  due;  nor  need  we  be  parsi- 
monious of  commendation,  as  if  there  were  but  a  cer- 
tain quantity  for  distribution,  and  our  iiberahty  would 
be  to  our  loss ;  nor  should  we  hold  it  safe  to  detract 
from  another's  merit,  as  if  we  could  always  keep  the 
world  blind,  lest  we  live  1o  see  him  whom  we  dispar- 
aged, praised,  and  whom  we  hated,  loved. 

Whatever  be  his  failings,  give  every  man  a  full  and 
ready  commendation  for  that  in  wliicii  lie  excels  ;  it 
will  do  good  to  our  own  hearts,  while  it  cheers  his. 
Nor  will   it  bring    our    iudgrmr-nt    into   (|uestioM   with 


404  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

the  discerning;  for  enthusiasm  for  what  is  great  does 
not  argue  such  an  unhappy  want  of  discrimination  as 
that  measured  and  cold  approval,  which  is  bestowed 
alike  upon  men  of  mediocrity  and  upon  those  of  gift- 
ed minds. 


A     LETTER    FROM    TOWN 


Shall  I  not  take  mine  case  in  mine  inn  .' 

Shaksi'eare. 

If  your  concern  for  pleasin;,'  others  arines  from  innate  benevolence,  il  never  fails  of 
success;  if  from  vanity  to  excel,  its  disappointment  is  no  less  certain, 
m  lu        lu  ...... 

In  a  wonl,  good-breeding  sliows  itself  most,  where,  to  an  ordinary  eye,  il  appears  the 
least. 

The  Spectator. 


My  dear  Friend,  — 

When  I  left  you  and  the  country  for  the  city,  I 
promised  to  send  you  a  portion  of  what  I  might  gather 
up  here  in  the  course  of  my  walks,  business,  and  visit- 
ings  ;  and  I  now  take  the  first  odd  moment  of  compos- 
ure tliat  I  have  been  blessed  with  since  reaching  this 
bustling  city.  I  say  of  composure;  for  though  I  am 
naturally  of  a  steady  disposition,  as  yon  well  know, 
you  can  hardly  conceive  what  a  whirligig  town-life 
makes  of  a  quiet  country-gentleman,  like  myself. 
Wiiere  I  see  that  men  have  a  clear  apprehension  of 
their  jjurposc,  it  n(;ver  jtirs  the  even  motions  of  my 
mind,  however  varied  and  great  the  action  aromid  iiu; 
may  be;  and  for  ilu-  very  siiiiph*  reason,  I  snppose, 
that  wherever  tliere  is  a  (H.^tiiid  purpose,  iiowever 
rapid   and  complicated   the    movements,   tiiere  will  be 


406  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

conducive  order.  But  where  men  are  kept  in  a  perpetu- 
al spin-round  from  a  mere  accidental  and  hurried  touch- 
and-go  meeting  with  one  another,  I  myself,  sky,  earth, 
and  all  upon  it,  get  into  a  whirl,  and  I  find  myself  fast 
undergoing  the  general  metamorphosis,  and  becoming, 
like  every  one  around  me,  a  humming-top.  Yes,  my 
dear  friend,  you  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  city 
and  abovit  its  inhabitants  ;  —  they  are  all  humming- 
tops  ;  and  the  best  of  it  is,  they  are  aU  humming  one 
another.  But  as  I  have  just  spun  out  my  turn,  and  am 
at  present  lying  still  on  my  side,  I  will  endeavour  to 
do  as  those  do  who  think  to  make  amends  for  spending 
the  greater  part  of  life  in  a  round  of  folly,  by  being 
wise  and  moralizing  upon  it,  for  the  little  time  they  are 
in  their  senses. 

You  were  a  gTcat  reader  of  Doctor  Johnson  in 
your  younger  days ;  and  though  you  quarrelled  with 
many  of  his  criticisms,  your  admiration  of  that  gi'eat 
man  was  less  qualified,  I  believe,  than  it  is  now.  I 
cannot  say  that  time  has  had  the  same  abating  influ- 
ence respecting  him  upon  me.  He  is  no  less  frequent- 
ly in  my  thoughts  than  formerly.  To  this  circum- 
stance you  must  consider  yourself  indebted  for  the 
subject  of  the  present  letter,  and  thank  the  Doctor  for 
whatever  may  please  you  in  it ;  for  I  seldom  think  of 
him  without  calling  to  mind  his  love  of  an  inn  ;  it  is 
one  of  the  easy-natured  traits  of  his  character. 

There  certainly  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  a 
man  feels  so  independent  and  easy,  and  so  inclined  to 
take  clear  comfort.  It  is  equally  well  fitted  to  nearly 
all  sorts  of  characters.  The  blackguard  goes  to  it  to 
lord  it  over  his  own  gang,  put  the  host  in  good  hu- 
mour, have  full  swing  amongst  the  waiters,  and  sharp- 
en his  wits  upon  the  comers-in.      He  visits  it  nightly, 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  407 

as  much  for  his  improvement  in  liis  caUing  as  for  his 
pleasure ;  and  goes  home  as  satisfied,  wlien  he  has 
done  well,  as  those  who  have  fmished  more  serious 
duties  with  duller  iieads.  The  humourist  may  have 
his  own  \\"a\"  tluTc,  and  the  surly  man  keep  his  corner, 
and  pass  himself  off  for  one  of  grave  taciturnity.  In 
short,  nowliere  else  can  so  variovis  and  opposite  dispo- 
sitions herd  together,  with  so  little  annoyance  to  each 
other. 

It  is  the  world  in  little.  jNIen  of  all  sizes,  complex- 
ions, and  callings  are  as  close  stowed  as  beasts  in  a 
cattle-show,  and  give  as  good  opportunity  to  observe 
their  points  and  varieties.  Here  you  meet  politicians, 
who  never  had  place  or  pension,  with  plans  to  keep 
order  without  law;  beaux  in  rusty  hats  and  coats 
white  in  the  shoulders ;  gray-headed  midshipmen  who 
could  "  sink  a  navy " ;  Laputa  philosophers ;  hen- 
pecked husbands,  venting  their  lungs  and  sj)iriting  up 
their  courage ;  quiet,  staid  bachelors,  who  eat  and 
drink  by  weight  and  measure,  and  sleep  by  the  clock ; 
the  dapper  gentleman,  in  the  unsoiled  suit,  fresh  and 
smooth  as  a  ladies'  man ;  and  your  swaggerer,  always 
dirty,  and  always  rude.  Besides  these,  and  many  more 
in  contrast,  come  the  fillers-up  of  society,  your  ordinary 
men,  with  differences  so  faintly  marked  that  it  is  quite 
a  science,  and  an  ill-paid  one,  to  trace  them  out. 

One  who  wishes  to  study  his  i'ellow-mcn  may  study 
here,  and  save  himself  a  deal  of  travel.  He  has  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  take  his  seat  snugly  in  a  corner,  and 
look  and  listen,  and  now  and  then  throw  in  :i  remark 
in  way  of  suggestion,  just  to  see  what  it  will  come  to. 
—  Out  of  doubt,  it  is  a  situation  well  litted  to  that 
sort  of  iiM-ii  who  keep  about  in  society  for  the;  sole  pur- 
pose of  sjieculating  upon  human  nature.     Here  they  are 


408  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

most  likely  to  find  people  off  their  guard ;  and  they 
themselves  are  not  kept  back  by  the  restraints  of  cere- 
mony. 

One  of  these  observers  wlU.  enter  a  room  of  motley 
company,  with  a  grave,  downward  aspect,  and  pace  it 
to  and  fro  with  a  measured  step,  as  if  lost  in  abstrac- 
tion, or  busy  about  some  embarrassing  question.  If 
you  watch  him  narrowly,  however,  you  will  presently 
catch  his  eye  scaling  along  over  the  group  of  talkers 
you  are  standing  amongst,  as  if  he  were  taking  note  of 
each  one  in  the  circle. 

I  dined  out  to-day,  and  told  our  old  friend,  Thom- 
son, I  would  meet  him  at  the  tavern,  that  he  might 
take  me  to  his  club  more  conveniently.  It  was  a  raw 
night  after  a  warm  day,  a  time,  of  all  others,  when  a 
fire  is  most  cheering.  Each  one  drew  near  the  inn  fire 
with  open  hands ;  and  rubbing  them  together  in  a  self- 
congratulatory  way,  with  a  working  of  the  shoulders 
and  a  backward  throw  of  the  head,  was  prepared  for  a 
set-to  at  a  long  talk  upon  whatever  might  be  going  on. 

I  was  sitting  in  an  old  round-about  which  stood  in 
a  corner,  waiting  the  coming  of  my  friend,  without  tak- 
ing part  in  the  conversation,  when  a  person  like  the 
one  I  have  just  before  described  walked  slowly  into  the 
room.  He  was  past  middle  age,  and  his  tailor  was 
probably  as  old  as  himself,  for  his  dark  drab  coat  was 
of  the  fasliion  of  some  twenty  years  back.  There  was 
a  staidness  in  his  manner,  as  much  out  of  fashion  as 
the  cut  of  his  clothes,  but  suiting  well  with  the  strong 
sagacity  of  his  countenance.  The  nose  and  the  lines 
from  it  expressed  sarcasm,  which  was  tempered,  how- 
ever, by  playful  good-nature  about  the  lips ;  and  his 
eyes  had  that  look  of  inward  contemplation,  which 
makes  the  finest  eyes  in  the  world.     For  the  most  part, 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  409 

there  was  a  rich  haze  over  tliem  ;  but  when  they  turned 
their  notice  outward,  they  sent  forth  rays,  like  the  sun 
breaking  tlirough  a  mist. 

The  expression  of  his  eyes  and  mouth  led  me  to  ob- 
serve him  more  closely,  and  with  a  good  degree  of  in- 
terest. For  it  is  not  often  that  we  meet  with  men  who 
pass  much  of  their  time  in  society,  only  because  of  a 
certain  talent  at  discriminating  and  observing,  who 
have  not  hard,  self-pleased  countenances,  showing  that 
sort  of  sporting  with  the  weaknesses  of  our  kind  which 
no  good  man  can  take  a  share  in.  Yet  they  make 
smooth  way  through  the  world.  It  is  ten  to  one  that 
he  whom  they  next  meet  with  is  glad  of  a  laugh  with 
them,  though  at  another's  cost,  beside  feeling  safe  and 
in  favour  while  under  the  wing  of  one  of  these  world- 
wits.  They  know  full  well,  too,  that  few  men  are 
brave  enough  to  go  to  war  with  ridicule,  and  that  as 
few  will  put  themselves  at  risk  for  a  general  principle. 

An  habitual,  close  observation  of  the  customs,  man- 
ners, and  characters  of  society  will  beget  in  even  the 
best  men  a  relish  for  the  ridiculous.  It  is  past  question 
that  a  common-sense  man,  who  stands  by  and  sees 
how  much  folly  is  WTapped  snugly  up  in  ceremony,  how 
much  pretence  covers  indifl'erence,  and  how  far,  even 
among  the  knowing,  the  conventional  passes  current  for 
th(;  true,  must  have  a  scorn  of  the  foppery  with  which 
the  j)lain  fact  of  life  is  so  fantastically  tricked  out. 

lie,  then,  who  has  lived  K)ng  among  iiicii  as  a  looker- 
on,  and  has  kept  his  exhorting  from  turning  to  irony, 
and  his  earnestness  to  indilU'rcuce,  lias  given  a  thou- 
sand-fold better  proof  of  sound  j)riiicipl('  and  a  thor- 
oughly good  heart,  than  lu;  who,  in  a  fancied  benevo- 
lence, while  apart  from  the  world,  sees  nothing  but  the 
growth  of  virtue,  and  exalts  hiuisell   in  lauding  his  spe- 

voi,.  I.  35 


410  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

cies.  Even  a  little  taunting  of  the  world  may  go  with 
a  right  love  of  it,  and  he  may  be  hmnble  under  his 
own  infirmities  who  rebukes  another's;  else,  who  would 
be  our  censors  but  the  unkind,  or  our  teachers  but  the 
proud  ?  In  a  benevolent  heart,  our  very  frailties  beget 
an  anxiety  which  quickens  and  fills  out  the  growth  of 
the  affections ;  and  the  keen-sighted  to  our  faults  are 
not  always  those  who  love  us  least,  or  are  most  blind  to 
our  virtues. 

These  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  my  mind  while 
I  was  looking  upon  the  shrewd,  sarcastic,  benevolent 
face  before  me.  The  honest  owner  of  it  soon  saw  that 
I  was  observing  him ;  and,  whether  it  was  that  he  per- 
ceived an  expression  in  mine  that  pleased  him  or  that 
he  was  inclined  to  sift  me  I  cannot  tell, —  (I  rather  think 
there  was  a  sympathy  between  us,)  —  after  traversing 
the  room  once  or  twice  more,  he  made  his  way  next  to 
me  into  the  circle.  Taking  up  the  poker,  and  passing 
it  between  the  bars  in  the  same  deliberate  manner  as 
Vicar  Primrose  did,  when  about  upsetting  his  daugh- 
ters' washes,  "  What  companionable,  talkative  creatures 
a  brisk  fire  makes  folks  of  a  dull  day  ! ''  said  he.  This 
was  spoken  in  that  low  tone,  and  half  soliloquizing 
manner,  in  which  one  utters  himself,  who  wishes  to 
bring  on  a  conversation  with  his  next  neighbour,  yet 
does  not  feel  at  liberty  to  do  it  by  way  of  direct  address, 
and  so  throws  out  a  remark  for  him  to  take  up  or  not, 
as  he  pleases. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  turning  toward  the  fire,  too ;  "  they 
cluster  together  with  spirits  as  much  astir  as  flies  on 
the  sunny  side  of  a  tree  of  a  frosty  morning." 

Putting  down  the  poker  and  straightening  himself 
up,  he  looked  at  me  with  a  sociable  expression  of  face, 
as  if   we  understood  each    other  perfectly  well,    and, 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  411 

drawing  a  chair  into  the  circle,  said,  as  he  sat  himself 
down  by  me,  —  "  You  are  from  the  country.  Sir,  I  pre- 
sume ?  " 

"  I  am  so.  I  come  to  town,  now  and  then,  to  see  an 
old  friend,  and  to  give  my  faculties  a  jog  in  the  crowd." 

"  Two  very  good  reasons,"  he  remarked.  "  And 
may  I  ask,  without  being  impertinent,  whether  you 
have  two  more  as  good  for  making  the  country  your 
home  ?  " 

"  I  prefer  the  country,  inasmuch  as  a  man  sees  there 
less  of  the  frivolities  of  his  species,  and  more  of  nature, 
than  in  tow^n,  and  stands  a  better  chance  to  have  a 
more  equable  temper  and  a  more  independent  turn  of 
mind." 

"  True,"  he  answered.  "  The  flies  you  just  now 
spoke  of  wall  never  let  a  man  into  their  little  vanities, 
impertinencies,  and  enmities,  however  long  he  may 
stand,  feeling  his  heart  fill  \\ith  gladness  and  good-wall 
wiiile  looking  on  so  much  of  the  enjoyment  which  God 
gives  to  all  creatures." 

"  That  is  from  no  want  of  honesty  in  them,"  said  I. 
"  They  would  not  lie  to  us,  could  we  understand  their 
language.  They  do  not  keep  two  characters  on  hand, 
the  one  bad,  the  other  good,  like  a  man  with  his  home 
coat  and  another  for  visiting.  I  could  be  tolerably  well 
content  with  the  world,  bad  as  it  is,  would  men  Imt 
show  themselves  a  little  more  plainly." 

••  The  (liffirnlty  in  knowing  men  arises,  not  only  from 
a  design  in  iliern  to  deceive  us,  but  also  from  a  pronc- 
ness  to  deceive  themselves.  Now,  look  you  round," 
said  he,  with  a  half  good-natured,  hall  sarcastic  smile, 
as  he  gave  a  side-glance  at  ilic  coinpany,  "upon  any 
dozen  of  men  you  may  happen  amongst,  and  it  is  odds 
but    you  will  fuid    thai    ten  ol'  tliem   jiave  been  all  their 


412  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

lives  industriously  making  up  for  themselves  false  clial-- 
acters,  have  thrown  away  what  belonged  to  them,  and 
might  have  done  good  service,  to  put  on  that  which 
perhaps  was  well  enough  in  itself,  but  has  become  fan- 
tastical and  absurd,  because  it  fits  ill  and  is  out  of 
place.  This  lost  labom*  is  sometimes  from  self-igno- 
rance, but  as  often,  to  be  sure,  from  want  of  thorough 
honesty.  The  best  of  us  begin  with  cheating  the 
world  more  or  less,  and  end,  for  the  most  part,  our  own 
dupes." 

"  The  world  is  perpetually  struggling  against  nature," 
said  I.  "  Who  stops  to  consider,  that  individual  pecu- 
liarities of  mind  and  manner  are  not  to  be  changed 
without  making  an  inconsistency  in  the  parts  taken  to- 
gether ?  " 

"  You  are  right.  Every  man  has,  by  nature,  his  pe- 
culiar manner,  and  certain  modes  of  expression  and 
motions  of  the  body  proper  to  himself.  No  one  is,  per- 
haps, free  from  little  awkwardnesses,  as  they  are  called, 
of  one  kind  or  another.  Now,  though  these  may  not 
be  well  in  themselves,  yet,  considered  in  their  relations, 
there  is  a  fitness  in  them  which  makes  them  even 
agreeable  to  a  discerning  man.  They  are,  in  general, 
in  harmony  with  the  structure  of  the  body,  but,  what 
is  better,  they  are  so  many  honest  indications  of  a 
man's  mind  and  disposition,  which  are  continually 
coming  from  him,  and  laying  his  character  open  to  us, 
without  his  observing  them.  They  are,  in  some  sort,  a 
part  of  the  very  constitution  of  the  being  they  belong 
to,  and  so  intimately  connected  with  his  thoughts  and 
feelings,  that  he  will  find  it  hard  to  rid  himself  of  them 
without  injuring  the  mind  itself  He  will  be  instantly 
put  into  a  forced  state  by  so  doing,  carrying  on  a 
double   operation,  and   working    under   rule,   for   life. 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  413 

For,  after  till,  he  will  never  be  able  to  make  it  to  him- 
self so  much  a  habit,  as  to  furo;et  his  fashion  of  doing 
a  thing  in  his  concern  for  what  he  does.  In  this  way, 
he  will  be  putting  teasing  checks  upon  the  free  play  of 
his  ordinary-  feelings,  and  breaking  up  the  simple  move- 
ments of  his  impulses.  And  so  he  will  lose  his  credit 
with  the  world  even  for  the  little  sincerity  that  he  has 
left  to  himself,  and  fail,  in  the  end,  of  his  effect,  from 
his  too  great  anxiety  about  it.  My  dear  Sir,''  said  he 
abruptly,  "  did  you,  for  instance,  ever  see  a  perfectly 
graceful  speaker,  as  the  ladies  would  call  him,  without 
being  heartily  tired  of  him  after  twice  or  thrice  hearing 
him?" 

"  No,"  answered  I ;  "  your  elegant  speakers  are  very 
much  like  your  Blair  wTiters ;  there  is  no  fault  to  find 
with  them,  only  that  we  are  soon  w^cary  of  them." 

"  They  always  affect  me  in  the  same  way.  Nor  can 
I  call  to  mind  a  man  W'ho  has  made  himself  felt  after 
being  heard  many  times,  who,  either  from  the  too  fre- 
cjuent  repetition  of  some  gesture  proper  enough  in  it- 
self, perhaps,  or  from  some  odd  one,  has  not  set  all 
rules  of  gesticulation  at  defiance.  The  most  stirring 
speaker  I  ever  heard  was  remarkable  for  a  singular  mo- 
tion of  the  hand ;  yet  it  was  natural  to  him,  and  pro- 
duced an  effect.  To  me  it  was  the  man,  and  I  never 
remember  it  but  as  something  pleasing,  and  free  from 
anything  of  the  ludicrous.  One  should  take  care  how 
he  new-models  his  manner;  for  unless  he  is  peculiarly 
fortunate,  the  chance  is  that  he  will  cast  off  what  we 
could  very  well  put  up  with,  all  the  while  fancying  to 
himself  that  he  is  about  delighting  us  with  what,  in 
truth,  we  shall  never  tolerate.  A  bad  natural  manner 
is  bad  enough,  but  a  bad  arliiicial  one  is  abominable." 

''  There  are  certain  ui»gainly  tricks  of  the  body,"  said 
:V3  • 


4l4  THE  IDLE    MAN. 

I,  ''  generally,  however,  proceeding  from  an  embar- 
rassed mind;  but  the  worst  of  them  never  make  a 
man  half  so  ridiculous  as  is  the  awkward  man  who 
puts  himself  to  school  to  the  graces.  The  most  strik- 
ing thing  about  the  latter  will  be  a  stiff  sort  of  motion, 
aiming  at  ease,  and  a  clumsy  endeavour  after  elegance. 
There  are  others,  of  a  happy  temperament  and  a  sup- 
pleness of  body,  who  undertake  to  refine  upon  what 
nature  has  done  for  them,  and  so  part  with  that  which 
made  every  one  pleased  and  at  home,  —  hardly  know- 
ing why,  —  to  take  up  with  obtrusive  graces  and  im- 
pertinent grimace ;  and  thus  they  turn  their  manners 
into  forms  and  dresses,  instead  of  leaving  them  the 
mere  representatives  of  a  polite,  well-ordered  mind." 

"  Very  true ;  and  if  the  mind  is  well  improved,  and 
right  feelings  brought  out,  what  we  call  the  manners 
will  for  the  most  part  take  care  of  themselves.  Make 
it  a  child's  main  principle  to  love  the  truth  and  always 
hold  to  it,  and  he  will  have  an  open  and  manly  decis- 
ion of  manner,  which  will  clear  his  way  for  him  wher- 
ever he  goes.  Give  him  a  tasteful  mind,  and  there  will 
be  beautiful  emanations  from  it  playing  about  him, 
even  on  ordinary  occasions.  Teach  him  that  selfish- 
ness defeats  its  own  purposes,  and  makes  the  most 
polite  sometimes  vulgar ;  that  in  common  intercourse 
he  is  to  be  more  mindful  of  others  than  of  himself; 
that  he  is  not  to  press  hard  his  own  tastes  and  opin- 
ions till  they  give  uneasiness ;  that  it  is  best  to  find 
out  the  bent  of  another's  feelings,  and  not  cross  it  ex- 
cept where  it  is  at  variance  with  a  weighty  truth  ;  that 
he  is  rather  to  talk  upon  what  his  companions  are  famil- 
iar with,  than  unfeelingly  to  parade  before  their  igno- 
rance a  show  of  what  he  himself  knows ;  that,  unless 
some  occasion  calls  for  it,  he  is  not  to  keep  ahead  of  those 


A    LETTEK    VKO.M    TOWN.  415  • 

he  is  with,  insread  of  walking  by  their  side ;  that  his 
principal  objec-T  should  be  to  produce  a  good  and  ha))py 
state  of  things  wherever  he  goes:  and  that  in  this  way- 
he  will  m^ke  sure  his  own  satisfying  enjoyments,  with- 
out the  monifying  sense  of  a  selfish  aim;  —  and  you 
will  do  more,  upon  these  few,  simple  principles,  to 
make  a  thorough  gentleman,  than  all  the  pedantry  of 
polite  education,  than  all  the  outside  endeavoiu-s  of  the 
professors  and  scholars  of  elegant  accomplishments, 
could  ever  teach  or  comprehend." 

This  may  sound  a  little  climacteric  to  you,  my  dear 
friend;  but  coming  from  a  thoughtful  man,  past  mid- 
dle life,  who  had  not  lost  his  feelings  with  his  hairs,  it 
took  hold  of  me  from  its  simple  earnestness ;  and  more 
so,  as  I  marked  in  his  face  the  play  of  his  feelings 
growing  quicker  as  he  went  on,  and  a  flush  of  ex- 
citement spreading  gradually  over  his  pale  counte- 
nanct\ 

He  paused  and  looked  down  for  a  moment,  as  if 
sensible  that  his  zeal  had  led  him  into  something  like 
an  harangue,  and  to  take  more  to  himself  than  a  well- 
bred  man  should  ordinarily  do,  especially  when  with  a 
stranger.  The  delicate  embarrassment  of  his  manner 
moved  me  a  good  deal,  particularly  when  I  considered 
that  it  was  shown  toward  one  so  much  younger  than 
himself. 

More  to  relieve  him  than  from  any  wish  to  talk,  (for 
T  preferred  listening,)  I  began  saying  something  about 
the  tiresome  sameness  of  what  is  calh'd  high  lilc  in  a 
city.  He  raised  his  head  a  little,  and  iurning  toward 
rne  with  a  smile,  looked  at  me  as  if  he  thanked  me. 
This  put  me  otf  again  from  what  I  was  about  remark- 
ing; and  1  was  never  more  glad  than  at  seeing  my 
friend  Thomson  coming  in  at  the  door  to  relieve  me 


416  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

from  my  uneasy  sensations.  There  was  something 
delightful  in  them,  notwithstanding ;  and  when  my 
friend  introduced  me  to  the  stranger  as  an  old  and  par- 
ticular acquaintance  of  his,  and  I  took  his  extended 
hand,  we  were  better  known  to  each  other  than  most 
of  those  who  have  lived  next-door  neighbours  for  some 
dozen  years. 

It  was  quite  time  to  join  the  club.  My  new  ac- 
quaintance turning  out  to  be  a  member,  as  well  as  my 
friend,  we  walked  in  sociably  together. 

In  my  next,  I  hope  to  send  you  some  account  of  the 
club ;  though  this  is  quite  uncertain,  as  the  spirit  of 
order  bears  as  little  rule  over  me  at  present  as  it  does 
over  the  place  I  am  in  ;  besides,  I  may  meet  with 
something,  if  not  more  worthy  of  your  attention,  yet 
more  amusing,  perhaps. 

Yours, 

A.  B. 


A  SECOND  LETTER  FROM  TOWN. 


Not  moved  a  whit. 
Constant  to  lightness  still ! 

You  're  for  mirth, 
Or  I  mistake  you  much. 

Massingur 

Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 

So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-l)egone 

Shakspeake. 


L\  the  first  letter  which  I  wrote  you  from  town,  I 
spoke  of  our  old  friend's  taking  me  with  him  to  his 
club.  As  we  went  late,  and  a  good  part  of  the  mem- 
bers could  be  seen  but  dimly  through  the  cigar-smoke, 
I  shall  put  off  a  general  description  of  their  persons, 
till  I  get  a  view  of  them  in  a  clear  atmosphere.  Be- 
sides, while  it  is  fresh  in  my  mind,  I  wish  to  give  you 
the  latter  part  of  a  dialogue,  which  was  going  on  as 
we  entered,  between  a  snug-built,  well-dressed,  fresh- 
looking  man  of  about  five-and-forty,  and  another  of 
nearly  the  same  age,  I  am  told,  —  but  aj)j)arently  ivn 
years  older,  —  of  a  thin  visage  and  spare  frame,  with 
an  impatient  hurry  in  his  speech,  loiiowed  by  a  whin- 
ing drawl ;  and  who,  to  set  off  his  figure  the  better,  I 
suppose,  was  clad  in  a  mixed-gray  suit  with  black  but- 
tons.    He  nestled  about  in  his  seat  with  a  fidgety  mo- 


418  THE     IDLE    MAN. 

tion,  and  there  was  a  nervous  tvvitching  of  the  eyelids, 
and  a  restlessness  in  the  eye,  though  he  was  all  the 
while  looking  at  one  object,  very  much  as  folks  do 
when  repeating  from  memory.  The  first  gentleman, 
who  seemed  to  have  most  of  the  talk  to  himself,  was 
going  on  thus,  as  we  drew  near  them  :  — 

"  There  is  no  telling  how  large  a  pack  of  troubles  a 
man  may  have  upon  his  shoulders  at  the  end  of  life, 
who  keeps  it  always  open  like  an  alms-basket,  and  has 
no  hole  at  bottom  to  let  out  a  little  of  what  he  takes 
in.  He  need  not  ape  a  lame  leg  or  a  broken  back. 
If  he  keeps  his  wallet  stuffed  with  odd  scraps  of  bad 
meat  and  mouldy  bread,  when  he  can  get  better,  for 
the  sake  of  groaning  over  his  hard  fare,  he  will  go 
doubled  and  limping  to  his  grave,  in  good  earnest." 

"  A  pleasant  fellow,  you,  Tom,  with  a  nosegay  in 
your  button-hole,  and  snuff  between  thumb  and  finger, 
who  never  found  it  too  cold  without-doors,  nor  too  hot 
within.  You  go  as  gay  as  an  ostrich,  and  with  not 
a  whit  more  thought." 

"  1  've  done  my  part,  Abraham,  and  it  is  my  wife's 
duty  to  look  at  things  at  home,  and  to  keep  the  chil- 
dren out  of  the  fire,  or  cure  them  when  they  get  in. 
Besides,  I  never  saw  any  good  come  of  too  much  care 
of  the  brats ;  it  only  makes  them  helpless.  And  if  all 's 
at  sixes  and  sevens  at  home,  and  my  mate's  voice  and 
face  grow  sharp  and  angry,  T  come  and  take  heart  at 
the  sound  and  sight  of  your  clear  voice  and  gay  coun- 
tenance, over  a  bottle  of  the  best." 

Abraham  did  not  much  like  this  taunt  at  his  com- 
plainings ;  and  his  cheek  began  to  kindle  and  grow 
redder  in  spots,  the  louder  and  longer  Tom  laughed. 
Tom  seemed  to  care  little  for  this,  so  it  did  but  put  a 
stop  to  the   drone-pipe  which   Abraham  was    said  to 


A    SECOND    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  419 

play  upon  whenever  he  came    to   the  club  to  have  a 
merrv  niijht  ol"  it. 

'•  No  surer  cure  for  our  troubles,  Abraham,  than  to 
get  into  a  rousing  jiassion  ;  and  you  have  not  a  better 
Iriend  in  the  world  than  I,  who  am  always  helping  you 
into  one.  Why,  you  would  have  gone  all  night  like 
an  ill-greased  wheel,  spoke  following  up  and  down 
after  spoke  to  the  melancholy  creaking,  had  n  't  I  vexed 
you.  Now  we  shall  see  you  in  a  tine  whirl  presently, 
striking  fire  out  of  every  stone  you  hit  against.  Don't 
you  remember  how  sad  you  were  a  half-score  years 
ago,  because  the  gout  would  n't  carry  oil"  your  uncle  ? 
and  when  it  did  the  business  for  him,  and  took  you 
softly  by  the  toe,  only  to  tell  you  of  it,  how  woc-begone 
you  looked,  just  as  if  your  mourning  suit  was  to  be 
handed  over  to  your  man  John  to  appear  respectably 
in  at  his  master's  funeral  ?  Yet  you  got  here  to-night 
without  halting;  and  if  you  don't  make  your  way 
home  as  quick  as  the  rest  of  us,  it  will  not  be  the 
gout  that  will  hinder  you." 

Abraham  had  three  charges  to  answer  to,  —  his  com- 
plaining disposition,  his  eagerness  for  his  uncle's  death, 
and  an  over-fondness  for  good  wine.  Now,  whether 
it  was  his  anger  that  made  him  take  up  the  last  word, 
as  is  generally  the  way  with  a  man  in  a  passion,  or 
that  the  first  two  char^(;s  were  not  to  be  denied,  Abra- 
ham chose  to  clear  hiinsclf  of  the  last,  and  to  have  his 
revenge  on  Tom,  by  railing  against  a  weakness  which 
Iw  himsrif  was  kept  from  by  at  least  as  great  failings, 
lie  knew  the  cost  of  his  liijuor,  and  that  too  much 
wine  helped  to  rid  him  of  his  uncle,  and  Abraham  was 
said  to  be  both  a  miser  and  a  coward. 

"  Have  you  n(j  .-hani<!  in  you,  Tduj,  that  you  will 
be    talking   of   drinking .'       Don't   you   remember    the 


420  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

snake-track  you  made  back  the  very  last  night  yon 
were  here  ?  And  by  the  going  of  your  clapper,  and 
the  shine  of  your  eye,  you  bid  fair  to  get  home  again 
the  same  way.  When  have  you  seen  me  make  such 
a  beast  of  myself  as  to  hold  up  by  my  neighbour's 
knocker  instead  of  my  own  ?  I  set  my  children  a  bet- 
ter example,  teach  them  to  strive  against  temptation, 
and  to  keep  a  watch  upon  any  besetting  sin.  I  tell 
them  that  life  is  a  state  of  trial  and  affliction  ;  that  if 
they  have  riches  and  blessings  to-day,  these  may  be  all 
gone  to-morrow ;  that  though  they  are  now  in  health, 
sickness  is  nigh  at  hand,  and  that  death  may  overtake 
them  at  noonday  ;  that  they  must  learn  temperance  in 
all  things,  and  never  forget  they  are  in  the  midst  of  evils. 
But  what  good  will  it  do  to  tell  you  this  ?  You  never 
will  have  forethought ;  and  though  there  is  little  else 
but  pains  and  misfortunes  in  life,  you  go  on  as  reckless 
of  all  as  if  harm  could  never  come  to  you." 

"  There  you  are  at  your  saws  again  I  I  tell  you 
what,  father  Abraham,  he  's  a  fool  who  is  always  busy 
making  troubles  for  himself,  when  there  is  no  danger 
but  what  he  will  have  enough  gratis.  I've  weathered 
more  storms  than  will  ever  beat  on  your  head,  though 
I  have  not  sat  like  an  old  crow  foreboding  them  while 
the  sun  shines.  To  take  you  in  your  own  way,  I  have 
not  forgotten  what  I  read  when  a  boy,  '  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  My  creed  is,  '  To  enjoy  is 
to  obey.'  And  I  can  say  more  than  can  be  said  for 
most  such  as  you,  I  make  my  faith  the  rule  of  my 
conduct,  and  take  care  to  act  up  to  it.  And  if  1  do 
sometimes  love  my  friends  so  much  as  to  forget  my- 
self and  be  a  little  too  merry  with  them,  it  stirs  my 
blood,  and  I  am  all  the  better  for  it  the  next  day.  I 
lose  no  time  by  it,  for  it  is  done  up  at  night;  and  if  I 


A    SFXOND    I-KTTER    FROM    TOWN.  421 

nm  not  (juite  ri2:ht,  my  cliildnMi  will  have  a  warning  in 
me  at  home,  and  nor  ho  obliged  to  pull  their  neigh- 
bours' characters  to  pieces  to  mend  their  own  witli. 
Besides,  it  is  as  well  to  have  a  failing  or  two  to  keep 
the  world  in  good-humour  with  one;  for  nothing  j)uts 
people  out  more  than  a  man's  being  too  good  for 
them.  And  what  would  come  of  all  my  virtues,  if 
they  only  made  men  enemies  to  me,  and  so  to  them- 
selves ? 

"  You  talk  about  my  cliildren.  Why,  man,  don't 
they  owe  their  lives  to  me,  and  what 's  more,  don't  I 
teach  them  how  to  enjoy  life  ?  Would  you  have  me 
moan  over  them  all  day,  till  they  were  as  long-visagetl 
as  saints  at  conventicle  ?  Stout-hearted,  full-blooded 
lads  !  And  you  would  have  them  crawling  along  as 
meek  and  pale  as  a  Philadelphia  patient  after  a  semi- 
weekly  slop-bleeding  I  Then,  again,  there's  my  wnfo  : 
—  hut  one  purse  between  us  and  no  questions  asked. 
Rides  or  walks  as  she  pleases  ;  and  not  a  word  about 
cost."  Here  Abraham  coloured.  "  I  'm  all  attention  ; 
see  her  at  parties  abroad,  and  dine  with  her  at  home,  — 
w^henever  there 's  company.  She  orders  what  suits 
her,  and  is  undisputed  mistress  of  the  household.  I'm 
pleased  to  see  her  in  sj)irits  ;  and  if  affairs  go  WTong, 
and  she  's  in  ill-humour,  I  take  care  not  to  put  any 
restraint  upon  her  by  being  in  the  way.  I  was  here 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual  to-night  because  the  servant 
1ft  fall  the  tea-tray  and  broke  halt  a  dozen  tea-cups  ; 
and  as  I  have  missed  my  tea,  —  thank  yon.  Sir,  to  (ill 
my  glass." 

Whilr-  he  twirled  a  light,  silver-headed  cane  in  his 
right  hand,  he  renclied  out  his  glass  with  his  left,  and 
I  began  tilling  it.  At  iiii<  eritieal  moment  the  dry 
and  sallow  visage*  of  Ahiaham  eaiiLrht  my  eye.     'riirned 

VOI-.    I.  «i() 


422  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

partly  round,  and  leaning  forward,  contrary  to  his  cus- 
tom, —  for  he  seldom  looked  at  the  person  he  was  talk- 
ing with,  —  his  eyes  were  fixed  steadfastly  upon  the 
rattle-iieaded  Tom,  with  that  mixed  expression  of  pity 
and  imploring,  with  which  one  gazes  upon  a  man  that 
is  going  to  be  hanged.  If  Tom  was  just  then  to  have 
been  swung  off,  it  could  not  have  been  more  mournful. 
I  was  so  intent  upon  the  face  of  Abraham,  that  I  for- 
got what  I  was  about,  till  Tom,  feeling  the  wine  run- 
ning over  his  hand,  and  moving  suddenly,  brought  me 
to  myself  Before  I  could  mutter  an  apology,  he 
caught  the  direction  of  my  eye,  and,  turning  tow^ards 
Abraham,  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  It  was  not  to  be 
withstood.  Tom  had  broken  the  enchantment;  and 
in  spite  of  good  breeding  and  good  feeling,  there  was 
a  roar  of  laughter  through  the  room.  This  was  too 
much  even  for  Abraham ;  he  sprang  upon  his  feet, 
uttering  something  between  a  mutter  and  a  curse,  (he 
never  dared  swear  outright,)  and  twitching  down  his 
hat,  which  had  grown  nap-worn  and  round-edged 
through  use,  and  at  the  same  time  seizing  his  long, 
slender  oak  cane  with  something  like  a  threatening 
motion,  he  darted  out  of  the  room. 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  Tom  cried  out,  —  "I  told 
him,  a  little  while  ago,  that  I  was  the  best  friend  he 
had  in  the  world,  and  I  shall  always  prove  so.  By  put- 
ting him  into  such  a  rage,  he  is  off  w^ithout  paying 
his  share  of  the  reclvoning.  There  need  be  no  making 
up  between  us,  for  he  will  no  sooner  remember  this, 
than  he  will  forgive  me  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
Poor  fellow,  I  pity  him  I  Nobody  ever  set  out  with 
fairer  prospects,  or  has  had  things  more  comfortable 
about  him ;  and  yet  he  is  the  most  forlorn  being  alive. 
Did  n  't  you  hear  him  prose  just  now  about  his  anxiety 
for  his  children  ?  —  while  all  his  aim  is  to  see  that  they 


A  SECOND  LETTER  lUOM  TOA\  N.         423 

shall  be  no  happier  than  himself;  for  he  takes  anoth- 
er 's  enjoyment  as  a  reproach  to  his  o\vn  self-made 
misery.  And  as  to  iiis  care  abont  their  worldly  estate, 
it  is  all  because  he  feels  their  possessions  will  be.  in  a 
sort,  his,  even  after  death.  For  my  part,  I  'ui  i-ontent, 
when  I  die,  to  give  up  all  my  claims  to  those  I  leave 
behind  me.  And  while  I  live,  I  mean  to  make  them 
and  myself  as  merry  as  we  can  well  be." 

With  a  rap  upon  his  box,  and  shaking  the  snuft' 
from  between  his  tiiiirers,  Tom  ended  his  moral  lec- 
ture, and,  with  a  well-satisfied  nod,  took  himself  off  to 
wind  up  the  night  at  another  club,  with  a  hand  at  whist. 
The  rest  of  the  company  soon  went  out,  one  after 
another,  without  noise,  like  sparks  upon  l)urnt  paper, 
leaving  my  old  friend  and  me  to  finish  a  bottle. 

Without  thinking  of  it,  we  at  the  same  moment 
drew  up  to  within  a  companionable  distance  of  each 
other;  and,  while  carefully  jwurLng  a  little,  first  into 
my  glass  and  then  into  his,  that  we  might  share  alike 
till  the  bottle  was  drained,  he  began,  in  that  same  coin- 
posed  manner  and  low  voice  which  were  familiar  to 
me  some  years  ago,  by  saying,  "  Thongh  Tom's  last 
remarks  may  sound  harsh  in  the  extreme  to  you,  yet  I 
fear  that  there  is  too  much  truth  in  thcin.  I  knew 
Abraham  when  he  was  a  child.  He  was  then  a  spare 
lad,  with  a  wrinkled  brow,  and  weak,  anxious  voice. 
As  he  was  feeble,  his  mother  nursed  him  up  with  cau- 
dles and  a  tippet,  bade  him  never  wet  his  feet,  and 
taught  him  that  it  was  a  sin  to  soil  his  ch)thes.  Think- 
ing him  not  lit  to  push  his  way  in  the  world,  and 
knowing  that  wealth  stands  one  well  in  hand  who 
has  little  force  of  character  or  intellect,  Al)raham  was 
instructed,  like  other  careful  boys,  to  {^et  liimselt  a  l<ox 
to  drop  his  money  in,  and  ihmt  to  spend  his  change 
foolishly  on  holidays.      Iiis  love    lor  what  is  great  and 


424  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

generous  being  destroyed  by  his  attention  being  taken 
up  with  little  things ;  seeing  another  so  much  concern- 
ed about  him  making  him  overrate  his  own  impor- 
tance ;  and  being  continually  anxious  about  his  money 
and  health,  soon  centring  all  his  thoughts  and  affec- 
tions in  self;  and,  with  all  his  painstaking,  finding 
others  happier  than  he,  —  it  was  not  long  before  he  be- 
came a  discontented,  ill-natured  man. 

"  The  other  never  had  the  headache  in  his  life ;  and, 
fair  weather  or  foul,  it  mattered  little  with  him.  Con- 
stitutionally happy,  all  that  he  could  he  turned  to  en- 
joyment; and  what  he  could  not,  he  let  alone.  So 
much  of  his  happiness  came  from  his  health,  that  he 
never  cared  for  the  more  abstract  pleasures  of  the 
mind  ;  and,  with  that  triumphant,  joyous  feeling  which 
flows  from  full  blood,  he  began  with  looking  down 
upon  feeble  constitutions,  and  ended  with  a  contempt 
for  those  who  suffered  under  the  real  afflictions  of  life. 
From  the  same  cause,  he  apparently  takes  to  those 
who,  like  himself,  are  fond  of  merriment;  and  really 
supposes  himself  to  be  a  kind-hearted,  friendly  fellow, 
when  in  truth  he  cares  nothing  about  others,  only  just 
so  far  as  they  serve  to  make  up  a  part  of  his  own 
pleasures,  and  to  help  on  the  game  of  life.  Tom  is  as 
selfish  as  Abraham,  but  not  so  annoying,  because  easy- 
natured.  You  may  think  I  should  allow  some  praise 
to  this  quality  of  character.  There  is  no  need  of  it. 
Men  will  always  give  it  its  fuU  due ;  and  as  for  its 
opposite,  if  it  does  not  make  its  own  punishment,  the 
world  will  lay  it  on  with  no  sparing  hand." 

Here  our  wine  was  gone,  and  the  last  candle  was 
burning  in  the  socket.  We  took  our  hats,  and,  laying 
our  reckoning  on  the  table,  walked  quietly  home  to  my 
friend's  house.  Yours, 

A.  B. 


DOMESTIC    LIFE. 


O,  friendly  lo  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life. 

COWPER 


It  is  for  a  short  part  of  life  only  that  the  world  is  a 
wonder  and  delight  to  us,  and  its  events  so  many  caus- 
es of  admiration  and  joy.  The  mist  of  morning  soon 
breaks  into  little  \\Teaths,  and  is  lost  in  the  air;  and 
the  objects  wliich  it  dressed  in  new  beauties  are  found 
to  be  things  of  our  common  notice.  It  passes  olf  from 
the  earth,  and  the  fairy  sea  is  swallowed  up,  and  the 
green  islands,  scattered  far  aiid  wide  over  it,  are  again 
turned  into  trees  or  mountain  brushwood. 

In  early  life,  we  are  for  ever  giving  objects  the  hue 
that  best  pleases  us,  and  shaj)ing  and  enlarging  them 
as  suits  our  imagination.  But  the  time  comes  when 
we  must  look  upon  the  unsightly  without  changing  it, 
and  when  the  hardness  of  reality  makes  us  feel  that 
there  are  things  not  to  be  moulded  to  our  fancies. 
Men  and  their  actions  were  figured  to  our  minds  in 
extremes,  (iiants  and  dwarfs  peopled  the  world,  and 
filled  it  with  deeds  of  heroic  virtue  and  desperate  vice. 
All  that  \Vf  looked  forward  to  kept  our  spirits  alive, 
and  our  imagination  found  lood  lor  our  desires.  At 
3b- 


426  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

one  time,  we  were  vainglorious  at  om'  victories  over 
magnificent  crimes ;  at  another,  bearing  up  firmly 
against  oppression,  with  the  honest  and  tried. 

We  come  at  length  into  the  world,  and  find  men 
too  busy  about  their  own  affairs  to  make  those  of 
another  their  concern,  and  too  careful  of  themselves 
to  go  a  tilting  for  another's  rights.  Even  the  bad 
have  a  mixture  in  their  character  which  takes  away 
from  it  a  certain  exciting  poetic  effect,  and  we  at  last 
settle  down  in  the  dull  conviction,  that  we  are  never  to 
behold  the  splendour  of  entire  virtue,  or  the  reckless 
energy  of  unmitigated  vice.  With  this  sudden  check 
upon  our  feelings,  we  may  live  in  the  world  disap- 
pointed and  estranged  from  it ;  or  become,  like  others, 
cold  and  wise,  putting  on  timidity  for  caution,  and  self- 
ishness for  prudence,  be  guarded  in  speech,  and  slow 
in  conduct,  seeing  the  wrong,  yet  afraid  of  condemning 
it.  Or,  shaking  ourselves  loose  from  this  hypocrisy  of 
life,  we  may  let  go  with  it  the  virtues  it  mimics,  and, 
despising  the  solemn  ostent  and  formalities  of  society, 
may  break  through  its  restraints,  and  set  its  decencies 
at  defiance.  Or,  too  wise  to  be  vicious,  and  too  know- 
ing to  be  moved,  we  may  look  with  complacent  uncon- 
cern upon  what  we  hold  to  be  the  errours  of  the  world ; 
forbearing  to  shake  the  faith  of  the  religious,  because 
it  has  its  social  uses,  or  to  point  out  the  fallacies  of 
a  moral  code,  because  it  serves  to  the  same  end. 

The  virtuous  tendencies  of  our  youth  might  in  this 
way  run  to  vice,  and  our  early  feelings  grow  cold,  were 
there  not  in  us  affections  of  a  quieter  nature,  resting 
on  objects  simple  and  near  at  hand,  receiving  more 
happiness  from  one  being  than  from  a  thousand,  and 
kindling  a  light  within  us,  making  one  spot  a  constant 
brishtness.    and    secretly    cheering    us    through    life. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  427 

These  affections  are  our  domestic  attachmonts,  which 
are  refreshed  every  morning,  mid  grow  daily  nnder  a 
gentle  and  kindly  \varmth,  making  a  companionshii) 
for  what  is  lonely,  at  the  same  time  leaving  it  the  dis- 
tinctness and  intenseness  of  our  highest  solitary  joys. 
We  may  suffer  the  hopes  and  expectations,  which  shot 
up  wild  and  disorderly  in  our  young  imaginations,  to 
live  about  our  homes ;  and  leaving  them  their  savour 
and  bright  hues,  may  sort  each  with  its  kind,  and 
hedge  them  round  with  the  close  and  binding  growth 
of  family  attachments.  It  is  true,  that  this  reality  has 
a  narrower  range  and  an  evener  surface  than  the  ideal ; 
vet  there  is  a  rest,  and  an  assured  and  virtuous  glad- 
ness in  it,  which  make  an  harmonious  union  of  our 
feelings  and  our  fancies. 

Home  gives  a  certain  serenity  to  the  mind,  so  that 
everything  is  well  delined   and  in  a  clear  atmosphere, 
and  the  lesser  beauties  brought  out  to  rejoice  in  the 
pure  glow  which  floats   over  and  beneath   them  from 
the  earth  and  sky.     In  this  state   of  mind  alllictions 
come  to  us  chastened ;  and  if  the  wTongs  of  the  world 
cross  us  in  our  door-path,  we  put  them  aside  without 
anger.      Vices  are  about  us,  not  to  lure  us  away  or 
make  us  morose,  but  to  remind  us  of  our  frailty  and 
keep  down  our  pride.     We  are  put  into  a  right  relation 
with  the  world;  neither  holding  it  in  proud  scorn,  like 
the  solitary  man,   nor  being  carried  along  by  shifting 
and  hurried  feelings,  and  vague  and  careless  notions  of 
things,  like  the  world's  man.     We  do  not  take  novelty 
for  improvement,  or  set  uj)  vogue  for  a  rule  of  conduct ; 
neither  do  wc  despair,  as   if  all   great   virtues    had   de- 
parted   with  tln^   years  gone   by,  though  we   see  new 
vices,   frailties,   and  follies   taking  growth   in   the   very 
light  which  is  spreading  over  the  earth 


428 


THE    IDLE    MAN. 


Our  safest  way  of  coming  into  communion  with 
mankind  is  through  our  own  household.  For  there 
our  soiTow  and  regret  at  the  faihngs  of  the  bad  are  in 
proportion  to  our  love,  while  our  familiar  intercourse 
with  the  good  has  a  secretly  assimilating  influence 
upon  our  characters.  The  domestic  man  has  an  inde- 
pendence of  thought  which  puts  him  at  ease  in  society, 
and  a  cheerfulness  and  benevolence  of  feeling  which 
seem  to  ray  out  from  him,  and  to  diffuse  a  pleasurable 
sense  over  those  near  him,  like  a  soft,  bright  day.  As 
domestic  life  strengthens  a  man's  virtue,  so  does  it  help 
to  a  sound  judgement  and  a  right  balancing  of  things, 
and  gives  an  integrity  and  propriety  to  the  whole  char- 
acter. God,  in  his  goodness,  has  ordained  that  virtue 
should  make  its  own  enjoyment,  and  that  wherever  a 
vice  or  frailty  is  rooted  out,  something  should  spring 
up  to  be  a  beauty  and  delight  in  its  stead.  But  a  man 
of  a  character  rightly  cast  has  pleasures  at  home,  which, 
though  fitted  to  his  highest  nature,  are  common  to  him 
as  his  daily  food ;  and  he  moves  about  his  house  under 
a  continued  sense  of  them,  and  is  happy  almost  with- 
out heeding  it. 

Women  have  been  called  angels,  in  love-tales  and 
sonnets,  till  we  have  almost  learned  to  think  of  angels 
as  little  better  than  women.  Yet  a  man  who  knows 
a  woman  thoroughly,  and  loves  her  truly,  —  and  there 
are  women  who  may  be  so  known  and  loved,  —  wiU 
find,  after  a  few  years,  that  his  relish  for  the  grosser 
pleasures  is  lessened,  and  that  he  has  grown  into  a 
fondness  for  the  intellectual  and  refined  without  an 
eflbrt,  and  almost  unawares.  He  has  been  led  on  to 
virtue  through  his  pleasures ;  and  the  delights  of  the 
eye,  and  the  gentle  play  of  that  passion  which  is  the 
most   inward  and  romantic  in  our  nature,  and  which 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  429 

keejxs    nuu-li   ol'  irs   c-hanictrr   uinids:t  the   ooncems   of 

life,  h;ive  held  him  in  a  kind  of  s|)iritualiztHl  existence: 

he  shares  his  very  beinii^  with  one  who,  a  i-reature  of 

tliis  world  and  with  sometiiing  of  the  wxirld's  frailties,  is 

"  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright, 
With  somethinof  of  an  antrel  lijjht." 

With  all  the  sincerity  of  a  companionship  of  feeling, 
cares,  sorrows,  and  enjoyments,  her  presence  is  as  the 
presence  of  a  purer  being,  and  there  is  that  in  her 
nature  which  seems  to  bring  him  nearer  to  a  better 
world.  She  is,  as  it  were,  linked  to  angels,  and  in 
his  exalted  moments  he  feels  himself  held  by  the  same 
tie. 

In  the  ordinary  aflairs  of  life,  a  woman  has  a  gi-eat- 
er  inlluence  over  those  near  her  than  a  man.  While 
our  feelings  are,  for  the  most  part,  as  retired  as  anchor- 
ites, hers  are  in  play  before  us.  We  hear  them  in  her 
varying  voice ;  we  see  them  in  the  beautiful  and  har- 
monious undulations  of  her  movements,  in  the  quick- 
shifting  hues  of  her  face,  in  her  eye,  glad  and  bright, 
then  fond  and  suHused ;  her  frame  is  alive  and  active 
with  what  is  at  her  heart,  and  all  the  outward  form 
speaks.  She  seems  of  a  liner  mould  than  we,  and  cast 
in  a  form  of  beauty,  which,  like  all  beauty,  acts  with  a 
moral  influence  upon  our  hearts;  and  as  she  moves 
al)out  us,  we  feel  a  movement  within  which  rises  and 
spreads  gently  over  us,  harmonizing  us  u  iih  lirr  ow  n. 
—  And  can  any  man  listen  to  this,  —  can  his  eye,  day 
after  day,  rest  n|)on  this,  and  hi-  not  Ix;  touciicd  by  il, 
and  made  better  ? 

The  dignity  of  a  woman  has  its  peculiar  character; 
it  aw(rs  more  than  that  of  man.  His  is  more  physical, 
bearing  itsell  up  with  an  ciicr^'V  of  courat^c  which  we 
may    brave,    or    u    strength    which    we    may    struggle 


430  THE    IDLK    MAN, 

against;  he  is  his  own  avenger,  and  we  may  stand 
the  brunt.  A  woman's  has  nothing  of  this  force  in  it ; 
it  is  of  a  higher  quality,  and  too  delicate  for  mortal 
touch. 

There  is  a  propriety,  too,  in  a  woman's  mind,  a  kind 
of  instinctive  judgement,  which  leads  us  along  in  a 
right  way,  and  that  so  gently,  and  by  such  a  continu- 
ous run  of  little  circumstances,  that  we  are  hardly  con- 
scious we  are  not  going  on  in  our  own  course.  She 
helps  to  cure  our  weaknesses  better  than  man,  because 
she  sees  them  quicker,  because  we  are  more  ready  to 
lay  open  to  her  those  w^iich  are  hid,  and  because  advice 
comes  from  her  without  its  air  of  superiority,  and  re- 
proof without  its  harshness. 

Men  who  feel  deeply  show  little  of  their  deepest 
feelings  to  each  other.  But,  aside  from  the  close  union 
and  common  interests  and  concerns  between  husband 
and  wife,  a  woman  seems  to  be  a  creature  peculiarly 
ordained  for  a  man  to  open  his  heart  to  and  share  its 
joys  with,  and  to  be  a  comforter  to  his  griefs.  Her 
voice  soothes  us  like  music ;  she  is  our  light  in  gloom 
and  our  sun  in  a  cold  world.  In  time  of  affliction  she 
does  not  come  to  us  like  man,  who  lays  by,  for  the 
hour,  his  proper  nature  to  give  us  relief.  She  ministers 
to  us  with  a  hand  so  gentle,  and  speaks  in  a  voice  so 
calm  and  kind,  and  her  very  being  is  so  much  in  all 
she  does,  that  she  seems  at  the  moment  as  one  born 
only  for  the  healing  of  our  sorrows,  and  for  a  rest  to 
our  cares.  The  man  to  whom  such  a  being  is  sent  for 
comfort  and  support  must  be  sadly  hard  and  depraved, 
if  he  does  not  feel  his  inward  disturbance  sinking  away, 
and  a  quietude  stealing  through  his  frame. 

The  relations  of  parents  and  children  are  the  most 
sacred  in  our  lives ;  and  there  are  no  pleasures,  or  cares, 


DOMi:STlC     MFK. 


431 


or  thoughts,  connected  w'uh  tliis  world,  which  remind 
us  po  soon  ot"  a  future.  The  heljiless  infancy  of  chil- 
dren sets  our  own  death  before  us,  when  they  will  be 
left  to  a  world  to  which  we  would  not  trust  ourselves ; 
and  the  thought  of  the  character  they  may  take  in  after 
lite  brings  with  it  the  question,  what  awaits  them  in 
another.  Though  there  is  a  melancholy  in  this,  its  se- 
riousness has  a  religious  tendency.  And  the  responsi- 
bility which  a  man  has  laid  himself  under  begets  a 
resoluteness  of  character,  a  sense  that  this  world  was 
not  made  to  idle  in,  and  a  feeling  of  dignity  that  he  is 
acting  for  a  great  end.  How  iieavily  does  one  toil  who 
labours  only  for  himself,  and  how  is  he  cast  down  by 
the  thougiit  of  what  a  worthless  creature  it  is  all  fori 

We  have  heard  of  the  sameness  of  domestic  life. 
He  must  have  a  dull  head  and  dry  heart  who  grows 
weary  of  it.  A  man  who  moralizes  feelingly,  and  has 
a  j)ronenes3  to  see  a  beauty  and  fitness  in  all  God's 
works,  may  find  daily  food  for  his  mind  even  in  an  in- 
fant. In  its  innocent  sleep,  when  it  seems  like  some 
blessed  thing  dropped  from  the  clouds,  with  tints  so 
delicate,  and  with  its  peaceful  breathings,  we  can  hardly 
think  of  it  as  of  mortal  mould,  it  looks  so  like  a  pure 
spirit  made  visible  for  our  delight. 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  says  At'ords- 
worth.  And  who  of  us,  that  is  not  so  over-good 
as  to  be  unconscious  of  vice,  has  not  felt  rebuked  and 
huml)lefl  under  tin-  clear  and  open  countenance  of  a 
ehild  ?  —  who  that  has  not  felt  his  impurities  ft)ul  ujjon 
him  in  the  presence  of  a  sinless  child  .'  These  feelings 
make  the  best  lesson  that  ean  l)e  taught  a  man  ;  and 
tell  him.  in  a  way  which  all  he  has  read  or  heard  never 
could,  how  paltry  is  tin,'  mere  intellect  c()ni|);ire(l  with 
a   pure   mid   good   heart.      lie  that  will  luuiil)lc  himself, 


432  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

and  go  to  a  child  for  instruction,  will  come  away  a 
wiser  man. 

If  children  can  make  us  wiser,  they  surely  can  make 
us  better.  There  is  no  one  more  to  be  envied  than  a 
good-natured  man  watching  the  workings  of  childi-en's 
minds,  or  overlooking  their  play.  Their  eagerness,  cu- 
rious about  everything,  making  out  by  a  quick  imagi- 
nation what  they  see  but  a  part  of, — their  fanciful  com- 
binations and  magic  inventions,  creating  out  of  ordinary 
circumstances,  and  the  common  things  which  surround 
them,  strange  events  and  little  ideal  worlds,  and  these 
all  working  in  mystery  to  form  matured  thought,  —  are 
study  enough  for  the  most  acute  minds,  and  should 
teach  us,  also,  not  too  officiously  to  regulate  what  we 
so  little  understand.  The  still  musing  and  deep  ab- 
straction in  which  they  sometimes  sit,  affect  us  as  a 
playful  mockery  of  older  heads.  These  little  philoso- 
phers have  no  foolish  system,  with  all  its  pride  and  jar- 
gon, confusing  their  brains.  Theirs  is  the  natural 
movement  of  the  soul,  intense  with  new  life  and  busy 
after  truth,  working  to  some  purpose,  though  without 
noise. 

When  children  are  lying  about  seemingly  idle  and 
dull,  we,  who  have  become  case-hardened  by  time  and 
satiety,  forget  that  they  are  all  sensation,  that  their 
outstretched  bodies  are  drinking  in  from  the  common 
sun  and  air,  that  every  sound  is  taken  note  of  by  the 
ear,  that  every  floating  shadow  and  passing  form  comes 
and  touches  at  the  sleepy  eye,  and  that  the  little  cir- 
cumstances and  the  material  world  about  them  make 
their  best  school,  and  will  be  the  instructers  and  formers 
of  their  characters  for  life. 

And  it  is  delightful  to  look  on  and  see  how  busily 
the  whole  acts,  with  its  countless  parts  fitted  to  each 


Do.MKs^Tic   uFr:.  433 

other  and  niDving  in  liannoiiy.  'I'liore  air  none  oC  iis 
who  have  stolen  sofily  behind  a  cliild  when  Udjonrinii; 
in  a  sunny  corner,  diij^ijini^  a  Lilliputian  well,  or  feneins; 
in  a  six-inch  barn-yard,  and  listened  to  his  solilocjuies 
and  his  dialogues  with  some  imaginary  being,  without 
our  hearts  being  touched  by  it.  XtM*  have  we  observed 
the  flush  which  crossed  his  face  when  finding  himself 
betrayed,  without  seeing  in  it  the  delicacy  and  projiri- 
ety  of  the  after  man. 

A  man  may  have  many  vices  upon  him,  and  have 
walked  lon«j:  in  a  ])ad  course;  yet  if  he  has  a  love  of 
children,  and  can  take  pleasure  in  tiieir  talk  and  play, 
there  is  something  still  left  in  him  to  act  upon, —  some- 
thing which  can  love  simplicity  and  truth.  T  have  seen 
one,  in  whom  some  low  vice  had  become  a  lial)it,  make 
himself  the  plaything  of  a  set  of  riotous  children  with 
as  much  delight  in  his  countenance  as  if  nothing  but 
goodness  had  ever  been  exj)ressed  in  it;  and  I  Iiave  felt 
as  much  of  sympathy  and  kindness  toward  him,  as  1 
have  of  dislike'  and  misgiving  toward  another  who  has 
gone  through  life  with  all  due  propriety,  but  with  that 
cold  and  supercilious  bearing  towards  children  which 
makes  them  sjirinking  and  still.  I  have  known  one  like 
the  latter  attempt,  with  uncouth  condescension,  to  coiu't 
an  oj)en-heart»>d  child,  who  would  draw  back  with  an 
instinctive  aversion;  and  1  have  Ich  as  it  there  were  a 
curse  upon  him.  lifltcr  to  l)i'  driven  out  iVom  among 
men,  than  to  be  disliked  dI"  children. 

When  my  heart  has  been  rull  of  gladness  and  good- 
will at  the  thought  of  the  blessings  of  home,  and  at  the 
remembrance  that  the  littU;  which  is  right  within  me 
was  Icarnecl  there,  —  when  I  hav(^  relieeted  tipon  the 
nature  of  my  enjoyments  al)roa(l,  and  east  them  up, 
and   found   them   so  few,  and    have   then   turned    home 

vol..  I.  37 


484  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

again,  and  have  seen  that  its  pleasures  were  my  best 
lessons  of  virtue,  and  as  countless  as  good,  —  I  have 
thought  that  I  could  talk  of  it  for  ever.  It  is  not  so. 
Though  the  feeling  of  home  never  wearies,  because 
kind  offices  and  the  thousand  little  ways  in  which 
home  attachments  are  always  uttering  themselves  keep 
it  fresh  and  full  in  its  course,  yet  the  feeling  itself,  and 
that  which  feeds  it,  have  a  simplicity  and  unity  of  char- 
acter of  which  little  is  to  be  told,  though  they  are  al- 
ways with  us. 

It  may  be  thought  that  something  should  be  said  of 
the  influence  of  domestic  associations  on  a  child,  and 
on  its  filial  attachments.  I  would  not  overcast  the 
serenity  I  now  feel  by  calling  up  the  days  when  I  was 
a  boy,  when  the  spirits  were  unbroken  and  the  heart 
pure,  when  the  past  was  unheeded,  and  the  future 
bright.  I  would  not  do  this,  to  be  pained  with  all  that 
has  gone  amiss  in  my  latter  days,  —  to  remember  how 
poorly  I  have  borne  the  ills  of  life,  and  how  thankless 
has  been  my  spirit  for  its  good. 

It  is  needless  to  talk  of  the  afflictions  of  domestic 
life.  Those  which  Providence  sends  come  for  our 
good,  and  their  best  consolations  are  found  in  the 
abode  into  which  they  enter.  Of  the  troubles  which 
we  make  to  ourselves,  we  have  no  right  to  complain. 
Ill-sorted  marriages  will  hardly  bring  agreement,  and 
from  those  of  convenience  will  hardly  come  love.  But 
when  the  deep  and  tranquil  enjoyment,  the  light  and 
playful  cheerfulness,  the  exaltation  of  feeling,  and  the 
clear  calm  of  thought,  which  belong  to  those  who  know 
each  other  entirely,  and  have  by  nature  something  of 
the  romance  of  love  in  them,  are  all  told,  then  will  I 
speak  of  the  troubles  of  home. 


MUSINGS 


A  aleadfast  seat 
Sliall  then  be  youre  among  the  happy  few 
Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air, 
Sods  of  the  morning. 

He  sal,  —  and  talked 
With  winged  messengers ;  who  daily  brought 
To  his  small  Island  in  the  ethereal  deep 
Tidings  of  joy  and  love. 

Then,  my  Spirit  waa  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 
The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  blisa, 
And  holiest  love;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 
With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence. 

WOKDSWORIH 


Have  we  looked  upon  the  eurtli  «o  long,  only  to 
reckon  how  many  iiitn  and  beasts  it  can  maintain,  and 
to  see  to  what  account  its  timber  may  be  turned,  and 
to  what  uses  its  rocks  and  waters  may  be  put?  Do 
we,  with  BaiJIit!  Jarvie,  tiiink  it  a  jiity  that  so  much 
good  soil  should  lie  waste  under  a  u.seless  lake,  and  set 
against  the  cost  of"  draining  the  in-comings  of  the 
crops?  Have  we  lived  .^o  many  years  in  the  world, 
and  been  familiar  with  its  allairs,  only  to  part  oft'  men 
into  professions  and  trade's,  and  to  t<'ll  the  duo  jjiopor- 
tions  n-tjuired  to  stock  each  ?  .Must  wc  for  ever  travel 
the  straight-forward,   tiirnpik'-    road    ol    business,    and 


436  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

never  be  left  to  take  the  way  that  winds  round  the 
meadows,  and  leads  us  sociably  by  the  doors  of  retired 
farms  ?     Must  the  hills  all  be  levelled,  and  hollows  filled 
up,  that  we  may  go  like  draught-horses  the  dull  and 
even   road   of  labour   the    easier   and   with  the  more 
speed  ?     May  we  not  sit  awhile  to  cool  and  rest  our- 
selves in  the  shade  of  some  shut-in    valley,   with   its 
talking  rills  and  fresh  and  silent  water-plants,  —  or  pass 
over  the  free  and  lit  hill-tops,   catching  views  of  the 
1:)road,  open  country,  alive  with  the  universal  growth  of 
thinsf^,  and  ouarded  with  its  band  of  mountains  resting 
in  the  distance  like  patriarchs  of  the  earth  ?     Must  all 
we  do  and  all  we  think  about  have  reference  to  the 
useful,  while  that  alone  is  considered  useful  which  is 
tangible,  present  gain  ?     Is  it  for  food,  and  raiment, 
and  shelter  alone,  that  we  came  into  the  world  ?     Do 
we  talk  of  our  souls,  and  live  as  if  we,  and  all  that  sm-- 
rounded  us,  were  made  up  of  nothing  else    but   dull 
matter  ?     Are  the  relations  of  life  for  our  convenience 
merely,  and  has  the  fulfilling  of  their  duties  none  but 
promised  and  distant  rewards  ? 

Man  has  another  and  higher  natm*e  even  here  ;  and 
the  spirit  within  him  finds  an  answering  spirit  in  every- 
thing that  grows,  and  affectionate  relations,  not  only 
with  his  fellow-man,  but  with  the  commonest  things 
that  lie  scattered  about  the  earth. 

To  the  man  of  fine  feeling,  and  deep  and  dehcate 
and  creative  thought,  there  is  nothing  in  nature  which 
appears  only  as  so  much  substance  and  form,  nor  any 
connections  in  life  which  do  not  reach  beyond  their 
immediate  and  obvious  purposes.  Our  attachments  to 
each  other  are  not  felt  by  him  merely  as  habits  of  the 
mind  given  to  it  by  the  customs  of  Hfe;  nor  does 
he  liold  them  to  be   only  as  the  goods  of  this  world, 


MUSINGS.  437 

and  the  loss  of  them  as  morclv  tiirninsr  him  forth  an 
outcast  from  the  social  state ;  but  they  are  a  part  of  his 
joyous  being,  and  to  have  them  torn  from  him  is  tak- 
ing from  liis  very  natiu-e. 

Life,  indeed,  with  him,  in  all  its  connections  and  con- 
cerns, has  an  ideal  and  spiritual  character,  which,  while 
it  loses  nothing  of  the  deliniteness  of  reality,  is  ever 
suggesting  thoughts,  taking  new  relations,  and  peo)>ling 
and  giving  action  to  the  imagination.  All  that  the  eye 
falls  upon  and  all  that  touches  the  heart  run  olT  into 
airy  distance,  and  the  regions  into  which  the  siglit 
stretches  are  alive  and  bris^ht  and  beautiful  with  count- 
less  shapings  and  fair  hues  of  the  gladdened  fancy. 
From  kind  acts  and  gentle  words  and  fond  looks  there 
spring  hosts  many  and  glorious  as  Milton's  angels  ;  and 
heavenly  deeds  are  done,  and  unearthly  voices  heard, 
and  forms  and  faces,  graceful  and  lovely  as  Uriel's,  are 
seen  in  the  noonday  sun.  What  would  only  have 
given  pleasure  for  the  time  to  another,  or,  at  most,  be 
now  and  then  called  up  in  his  memory,  in  the  man  of 
feeling  and  imagination  lays  by  its  particular  and 
short-lived  and  irregular  nature,  and  puts  on  the  gar- 
ments of  spiritual  beings,  and  takes  the  everlasting  na- 
ture of  the  soul.  The  ordinary  acts  which  spring  from 
the  good-will  of  social  life  take  up  their  dwelling  with- 
in him  and  mingle  with  his  sentiment,  forming  a  little 
society  in  his  mind,  going  on  in  harmony  witii  its  gen- 
erous enterprises,  its  friciidiy  Ial)onrs,  and  tasteful  pur- 
suits. They  undergo  a  change,  becoming  a  portion  of 
liiui,  making  a  part  of  his  secret  joy  and  melancholy, 
and  wandf'ring  at  large  among  his  far-off  tlioughts. 
All  that  his  mind  falls  in  with,  i1  sweeps  along  in 
its  deep,  and  swift,  and  continuous  (low,  and  hears 
157  ■ 


438  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

onward  with  the  multitude  that  fill  its  shoreless  and 
living  sea. 

So  universal  is  this  operation  in  such  a  man,  and  so 
instantly  does  it  act  upon  whatever  he  is  concerned 
about,  that  a  double  process  is  going  on  .within  him, 
and  he  lives,  as  it  were,  a  two-fold  life.  Is  he,  for  in- 
stance, talking  with  you  about  a  Northwest  Passage, 
he  is  looking  far  off  at  the  ice-islands,  with  their  tm-ret- 
ed  castles  and  fairy  towns,  or  at  the  penguin,  at  the 
southern  pole,  pecking  the  rotting  seaweed  on  which 
she  has  lighted,  or  he  is  listening  to  her  distant  and 
lonely  cry  within  the  cold  and  barren  tracts  of  ice,  — 
yet  all  the  while  he  reasons  as  ingeniously  and  wisely 
as  you.  His  attachments  do  not  grow  about  a  change- 
less and  tiring  object ;  but  be  it  filial  reverence,  Abra- 
ham is  seen  sitting  at  the  door  of  his  tent,  and  the  earth 
is  one  green  pasture  for  flocks  and  herds ;  or  be  it  love, 
she  who  is  dear  to  him  is  seen  in  a  thousand  imaginary 
changes  of  situation,  and  new  incidents  are  happening, 
delighting  his  mind  with  all  the  distinctness  and  sin- 
cerity of  truth.  So  that  while  he  is  in  the  midst  of 
men,  and  doing  his  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  world,  his 
spirit  has  called  up  a  fairy  vision,  and  he  is  walking  in 
a  lovely  dream.  It  is  round  about  him  in  his  sorrows 
for  a  consolation ;  and  out  of  the  gloom  of  his  affliction 
he  looks  forth  upon  an  horizon  touched  with  a  gentle, 
morning  twilight,  and  growing  brighter  to  his  gaze. 
Through  pain  and  poverty  and  the  world's  neglect, 
when  men  look  cold  upon  him  and  his  friends  are  gone, 
he  has  where  to  rest  a  tired  spirit  that  others  know  not 
of,  and  healings  for  a  wounded  mind  which  others  can 
never  feel. 

And  who  is  of  so  hard  a  nature  that  he  would  deny 
him  these  ?     If  there  are  assuagings  for  his  spirit  which 


ML'SI.NGS.  439 

are  never  ministered  to  other  men,  it  has  tortures  and 
griefs  and  a  fearful  melancholy  which  need  them  more. 
He  bronjjht  into  the  world  passions  deep  and  strong, 
senses  tremulous  and  thrilling  at  every  touch,  feelings 
delicate  and  shy,  yei  atl'ectionale  and  warm,  and  an 
ardent  and  romantic  mind.  He  has  dwelt  upon  the 
refinements  and  virtues  of  our  nature,  till  they  have 
almost  become  beauties  sensible  to  the  mortal  eye, 
and  to  worship  them  he  has  thought  could  hardly  be 
idolatry. 

And  what  does  he  find  in  the  world  ?  Perhaps,  in 
all  the  multitude,  he  ineets  a  mind  or  two  which  an- 
swer to  his  own;  but  through  the  crowd,  where  he 
looks  for  the  free  play  of  noble  passions,  he  finds  men 
eager  after  gain  or  vulgar  distinctions,  hardening  the 
heart  with  avarice,  or  making  it  proud  and  reckless 
with  ambition.  Does  he  speak  with  an  honest  indig- 
nation against  oppression  and  trick  .'  He  is  met  by 
loose  doubts  and  shallow  speculations,  or  teasing  ques- 
tions as  to  right  and  WTong.  Are  the  weak  to  be  de- 
fended, or  strong  opposed  ?  One  man  has  his  j)lace 
yet  to  reach,  and  another  his  to  maintain,  and  why 
should  they  put  all  at  stake  ?  Are  others  at  work  in  a 
good  cause  ?  They  are  so  little  scruj)ulous  about  means, 
bO  bustfing  and  ostentatious  and  full  of  self,  so  wrapped 
about  in  solemn  vanity,  that  he  is  ready  to  turn  from 
them  and  their  cause  in  disgust.  There  is  so  little  of 
natiu-e  and  sincerity,  of  ardour  and  sentiment  of  charac- 
ter, .such  a  diilness  of  perception,  such  ;l  want  of  that 
enthusiasm  for  all  that  is  great  and  lovely  and  true, 
(which,  whWv  it  makes  us  forgetful  of  ourselves,  brings 
with  it  our  hii^hest  enjoyments.)  such  :in  otiensive  show 
:ind  iiilk  of  factitious  sensibility,  —that  the  current  of 
hi-  tiH'lintfs  is  ehecked :  he  turns  away  depressed  and 


440  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

disappointed,  and  becomes  shut  up  in  himself;  and  he, 
whose  mind  is  all  emotion,  and  who  loves  with  a  depth 
of  feeling  that  few  have  ever  sounded,  is  pointed  at, 
as  he  stands  aloof  from  men,  as  a  creature  cold,  selfish, 
and  reserved. 

But  if  manner  too  often  goes  for  character,  hard- 
learned  rules  for  native  taste,  fastidiousness  for  refine- 
ment, ostentation  for  dignity,  cunning  for  wisdom, 
timidity  for  prudence,  and  nervous  affections  for  tender- 
ness of  heart,  —  if  the  order  of  nature  is  so  much  re- 
versed, and  semblance  so  often  takes  precedence  of 
truth,  yet  it  is  not  so  in  all  things,  nor  wholly  so  in  any. 
The  cruel  and  ambitious  have  touches  of  pity  and  re- 
morse, and  good  aflfections  are  mingled  with  our  frail- 
ties. Amid  the  press  of  selfish  aims,  generous  ardour 
is  seen  lighting  up  ;  and  in  the  tumultuous  and  heed- 
less bustle  of  the  world,  we  here  and  there  meet  with 
quiet  and  deep  affections  and  considerate  thought. 
Patient  endurance  of  sufferings,  bold  resistance  of 
power,  forgiveness  of  injuries,  hard-tried  and  faithful 
friendship,  and  self-sacrificing  love,  are  seen  in  beauti- 
ful relief  over  the  flat  uniformity  of  life,  or  stand  out 
in  steady  and  bright  grandeur  in  the  midst  of  the  dark 
deeds  of  men.  And  then,  again,  the  vices  of  our  nature 
are  sometimes  revealed  with  a  violence  of  passion  and 
an  intellectual  energy,  which  fasten  on  the  imagination 
of  a  creative  and  high  mind,  while  they  call  out  oppos- 
ing virtues  to  pass  before  it  in  visions  of  glory:  for 
"  there  is  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil  "  ;  and  the 
c-rimes  of  men  have  brought  forth  deeds  of  heroism 
and  sustaining  faith,  that  have  made  our  rapt  fancies 
but  gatherings  from  the  world  we  live  in. 

And  there  are  beautiful  souls,  too,  in  the  world,  to 
hold  kindred  with  a  man  of  a  feeling  and  refined  mil  id; 


MUSINGS.  Hi 

and  there  are  delicate  and  warm  and  sinij)Ie  afl'eetions, 
that  now  and  ihen  meet  him  on  his  way,  and  enter 
ijilently  into  his  heart,  like  blessings.  Here  and  there, 
on  the  road,  go  with  him  lor  a  time  some  who  call  to 
mind  the  images  of  his  soul,  —  a  voiee,  or  a  look,  is  a 
remembrancer  of  past  visions,  and  breaks  out  upon 
him  like  openings  through  the  clouds ;  and  tiie  distant 
beings  of  his  imagination  seem  walking  by  his  side, 
and  the  changing  and  unsubstantial  creatures  of  the 
brain  put  on  body  and  life.  In  such  moments  his 
fancies  are  turn(.'d  to  realities,  and  over  the  real  the 
ligiits  of  his  mind  shift  and  i)lay ;  his  imagination 
shines  out  warm  upon  it,  and  it  changes,  and  takes 
the  airiness  of  fairy  life. 

When  such  a  one  turns  away  from  men,  and  is  left 
alone  in  silent  communion  with  nature  and  his  own 
thoughts,  and  there  are  no  bonds  on  the  movements 
of  the  feelings,  and  nothing  on  which  he  would  shut 
his  eyes,  but  God's  own  hand  has  made  all  before  him 
as  it  is,  he  feels  his  spirit  opening  upon  a  new  exist- 
ence, becoming  as  broad  as  the  sun  and  air,  as  various 
as  the  earth  over  which  it  spreads  itself,  and  touched 
with  that  love  which  (iod  has  imaged  in  all  he  has 
formed.  His  senses  take  a  tpiickcr  life,  and  become 
one  refined  and  excpiisite  emotion  ;  and  the  elherealized 
body  is  made,  as  ir  were,  a  spirit  in  bliss.  His  soul 
grows  stronger  and  more  active  within  him,  as  he  sees 
lile  intense  and  working  throngjiont  nature;  and  that 
which  is  passing  away  links  itself  with  the  eternal, 
when  he  finds  new  lile  beginning  even  with  decay,  and 
hastening  to  put  forth  in  sonu-  other  form  ol  beauty, 
and  become  a  sliarer  in  M)iiie  new  delight*.  Mis  s])irit 
is  ever  awake  with  li:i|)p\  sensations,  and  cliei'rliil  and 
iimocent  and  easy  thonghts.      Soul  and  body  are  i)lend- 


442  THE    IDLE    MAN. 

ing  into  one  ;  the  senses  and  thoughts  mix  in  one  de- 
light; he  sees  a  universe  of  order  and  beauty,  and  joy 
and  life,  of  which  he  becomes  a  part,  and  finds  him- 
self carried  along  in  the  eternal  going-on  of  nature. 
Sudden  and  short-lived  passions  of  men  take  no  hold 
upon  him  ;  for  he  has  sat  in  silent  thought  by  the  roar 
and  hurry  of  the  stream,  which  has  rushed  on  from  the 
beginning  of  things ;  and  he  is  quiet  in  the  tumult  of 
the  multitude,  for  he  has  watched  the  tracery  of  leaves 
playing  safely  over  the  foam. 

The  innocent  face  of  nature  gives  him  an  open  and 
fair  mind;  pain  and  death  seem  passing  away,  for  all 
about  him  is  cheerful  and  in  its  spring.  His  virtues 
are  not  taught  him  as  lessons,  but  are  shed  upon  him 
and  enter  into  him  like  the  light  and  warmth  of  the 
sun ;  and  amidst  the  variety  of  the  earth  he  sees  a  fit- 
ness which  frees  him  from  the  formalities  of  rule,  and 
lets  him  abroad  to  find  a  pleasure  in  all  things,  and  or- 
der becomes  a  simple  feehng  of  the  soul. 

Religion,  to  such  a  one,  has  thoughts  and  visions 
and  sensations  tinged,  as  it  were,  with  a  brighter  light 
than  falls  on  other  men.  The  love  and  reverence  of 
the  Creator  make  then-  abode  in  his  imagination,  and 
he  gathers  about  them  earth  and  air  and  ideal  worlds. 
His  heart  is  made  glad  with  the  perfectness  in  the 
works  of  God,  when  he  considers  that  even  of  the 
multitude  of  things  that  are  growing  up  and  decaying, 
and  of  those  which  have  come  and  gone,  on  which  the 
eye  of  man  has  never  rested,  each  was  as  fair  and 
complete  as  if  made  to  live  for  ever  for  our  instruction 
and  delight. 

Freedom  and  order,  and  beauty  and  grandeur,  are 
in  accordance  in  his  mind,  and  give  largeness  and 
height  to   his  thoughts ;  he   moves   among  the  bright 


MUSINGS. 


443 


clouds ;  lie  wanders  away  into  the  measureless  depths 
of  the  stars,  and  is  touched  by  the  fire  with  which 
God  has  lighted  them.  All  that  is  made  partakes 
of  The   eternal,   and   religion   becomes  a   perpetual  de- 


light. 


END    ()!•     VOLUME   FIKST 


-uilnillU.'l|i<l''Alllii] 


;  .-.■■ILITY 


/V/V      000  266  418    3 


